


Home Is Where The Hurt Is

by vands88



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Study, Civil War (Marvel), Dancing, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, Everyone Loves Natasha Romanov, Fraction's Hawkeye, Kinky Bucky, Multi, Natasha Has Trust Issues, Natasha Needs A Day Off, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov's Arrow Necklace, Natasha Romanov-centric, POV Natasha Romanov, Past Steve/Peggy/Bucky, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Civil War (Marvel), Sam Wilson's Career Choice, Steve is the Little Spoon (pass it on), Up all night to get Bucky, Women Supporting Women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 63,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6495019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands88/pseuds/vands88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D., Natasha has to learn to trust again.</p><p>SET POST-WINTER SOLDIER & PRE-CIVIL WAR. Comic book crossover. (See beginning notes for details on the canons I'm using and ignoring). </p><p>Eventual barbershop quartet with many mentions of past & complex relationships and a ridiculous amount of cameos (no, seriously).</p><p>***NOW COMPLETE***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Good Case For Living

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the fic that probably should have been called Everyone Loves Natasha Romanov.
> 
> This sits somewhere between Mature and Explicit, so I'm going to round it up to be safe. 
> 
> **NOTES ABOUT CANON:** In MCU timelines this is definitely set immediately post- _Winter Soldier_ (and AoS S1) and pre- _Civil War_ , and is pretty much ignoring _Age of Ultron_ entirely: basically, Stark is funding the Avengers and there’s some tension there b/c he wants the Winter Soldier.  
>  I’ve stolen things from current-ish Marvel Now comics which screws up the timelines fantastically but also I wanted Kate Bishop and Isaiah and Liho the cat (from Edmonson/Noto run) so… tough.  
> Generally speaking, characterisation-wise and background-wise I’m favouring MCU Barnes over Comic Barnes (including the fact that according to MCU he has no previous association with Natasha because I wanted to see them connect even without shared Red Room backstory), but Comic Hawkeye over MCU Hawkeye (like, HEAVILY: kate bishop, not AOU family)  
> I’m completely ignoring the utter MCU dickmove wherein Natasha doesn’t know who Peggy is because come on Natasha wouldn’t work for an agency without knowing its founders at least I mean FFS she probably has more dirty secrets on members of S.H.I.E.L.D. than Coulson has trading cards (I am 100% here for the fanon that she only pretended she didn’t know about Peggy to find out more about Steve).  
> On a similar note, this Natasha has a version of the serum and was born in 1928 as in _Deadly Origins_. 
> 
> __  
> This has an illogical amount of cameos, but trust me, it could have been worse!  
>  __  
> Thanks to[lindsaylaurie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsaylaurie/) for the beta <3  
>  __  
> got a[tumblr](http://vands88.tumblr.com/) if you want to send asks there  
>  __  
> OKAY let's go!

Dependency is something to be wary of, a dangerous mix of trust and reliability that Natasha knows better than to indulge in. She depends on her web, the one thing that ensures her safety, that keeps her alive, day after day, mission after mission. Even intel is not dependable. Even S.H.I.E.L.D. 

So, why is it, that at a moment’s notice, when a nuke is heading their way, she dives towards Steve? Why is it when there is a deranged man on the roof of the car, she depends on two men to do their part? She trusts the man with the shield and the man with the wings, and she doesn’t know why. She hardly knows them, and men, especially, she finds difficult to trust. It feels like a mistake, and she fears it, so she gives them the distraction of Bucky Barnes, and leaves. 

She doesn’t know where to go at first. She has no home. For a while, she thought she might find comfort in familiar faces, but surrounding herself with the ordinary only made it harder when the extraordinary came knocking. Home is where the hurt is, after all. 

She tells Isaiah that she’s going off grid, and the professional that he is, he only requests that she not get herself killed. Natasha has known Isaiah for years. She _knows_ him, knows all there is to know; if he thought of betraying her, she would know it ten steps before he did. The difference is that trusting Sam and Steve was instinctual. She thought that she had trained her instincts better than that.

Distracted by her thoughts, she ends up being far more predictable than she should be, and returns to her old apartment in New York. It’s not hers anymore, she sold it, but there is still a familiar roof with a supply cupboard that conveniently no one has the key for but her. It will do for one night. 

It’s just as she left it, one of her standard basic hideouts; a pull-out bed, a couple of cans of food, and most importantly, an ample amount of first aid equipment. These are the kinds of hideouts that she frequents after a difficult mission. It’s actually unusual to visit one _without_ bleeding all over the blankets. 

It’s late, and she ate enroute, so the only thing on her agenda is sleep. She pulls out the bed. It takes up ninety percent of the space but it’s better than nothing. She reaches underneath the bed for the box of spare clothes and changes, and then after five minutes of staring at the ceiling, she hears the scratching on the door.

She knew Liho would come for her, and she lets the cat in, allowing herself this one evening of familiarity before she lets it go. She thinks about seeing Clint but there would be too much temptation to stay, and she has work to do. Liho is good company enough. 

She thought she knew everything about Captain America. She had files on everyone in the Avengers. She thought she knew who she was working with, but if the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. proved anything, it’s that she really didn’t know enough. 

That’s why she spends the next two weeks moving from safehouse to safehouse, contact to contact, digging up any dirt she can on Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson. And also, she loathes to admit it, Bucky Barnes. She worries about what they might find; Steve is optimistic enough to believe that Barnes is remembering, but Natasha knows from experience that sometimes “unstable” is just that, and if she can protect Steve from the truth of it then she will. 

-

On the third week since leaving, she goes to San Francisco to repay a debt to Matt Murdock. He’s returned to Hell’s Kitchen for a few days but he doesn’t like leaving his new city unprotected, so Natasha lurks in the underbelly of San Francisco, waiting for an ugly head to rise. 

It’s a Wednesday night and she’s in a West European bar in the back-end of the city when she hears about a man with a metal arm. 

_Always in the most unlikely of places_ , she thinks. 

It says something about her life that she’s immediately suspicious; that she swirls her vodka glass just the right way to be able to spy on the table of gossiping businessmen to check for guns under the table. But they’re harmless. She stands up and heads towards the bathroom and pretends to read a poster on the wall that is conveniently near their table. 

“Weirdest thing, I know,” she overhears the man says in slurred German, “he’s been hanging ‘round that alley by my house, must be homeless or something, tries to hide his metal hand everytime I go passing, but I see it alright.” 

She follows the businessman home that night and then waits in the alley. 

She waits and waits until sun is nearly risen and her eyelids are drooping, but then she sees him, or rather he sees her. 

There’s not as much anger in his eyes as she remembers, but instead there is confusion, and wariness. He doesn’t look like the photos of Sergeant Barnes in the Smithsonian but neither does he look like the Winter Soldier that is plastered in the papers. It’s impossible to know from this distance if he remembers her… if he remembers anything. He’s probably still unstable. 

She climbs down from her rooftop perch, carefully, keeping eye contact as she goes. She will not let herself be fooled by his dirty, torn clothes, and knapsack of belongings. He could still kill her. Or, he could, if she didn’t have twenty different ways to kill him first, or failing that, five different ways to escape this alley. She’s prepared to terminate him but she realises she doesn’t _want_ to if she doesn’t _have_ to, because of how much it would hurt Steve. Barnes shot her - and killed many good people - but she wouldn’t feel satisfied at his death. He looks as lost as she once did. As lost and deadly. 

She approaches cautiously. He sees her but he doesn’t move. He’s still watching her, with his bionic arm fisted at his side, and the other digging into the straps of his bag. 

“You remember me,” Natasha says, now certain of it.

He nods. 

“You took Steve out of the water.”

He inclines his head slightly before nodding once again. 

Barnes isn’t as unstable as she feared. She won’t kill him unless he attempts to kill her. The relief she feels at this thought is alien and overwhelming. She shouldn’t care, but she does. 

She wonders how long he’s been here; if he knows Daredevil usually protects these streets. _It’s not safe_ , she wants to warn Barnes, but she clamps down on the urge. If she should be telling anyone to be careful, it should be Matt. Her priorities have become realigned without her permission: she’s placing a damaged assassin above an old friend just because Steve _cares_. It’s a ridiculous quota to base alliances on considering that Steve cares about _everyone_.

Barnes inclines his head again, and she answers his unasked question: “He’s good. Alive.” She could leave it there but he needs the truth and she needs the answer. “He’s looking for you,” she says. “Do you want to be found?”

Barnes visibly tenses. 

“It’s okay if you don’t. It’s sometimes easier to not exist, but… he cares. You would have a place if you wanted one.”

He flexes again, as if he wants to run.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Barnes. I won’t even tell him where you are if you don’t want to, but he would want to know that you’re safe.”

She waits as Barnes shifts and glances and fidgets and finally comes to a decision. He nods, minutely, but it’s all the permission Natasha needs. 

She takes one step towards leaving when he finally speaks, a whisper, and broken, and in a confused mix of Russian and English, but still more than she hoped to find: “Do you think I deserve to live, Natalia?”

He looks to her, and even in the darkness of the alleyway, she can see herself reflected back. How many times has she asked herself the same question? And how many times has her hand faltered on a gun because _why should it be her that decides_? By what equation do you work out who lives and dies? 

She holds his gaze, it’s important that he understand. “No one deserves anything. You have been given a life and the best you can do now is make a good case for living.” 

He eventually breaks the eye contact. “You atoned for your past.”

“And you can do the same.”

There’s a minute shake of his head. She is beginning to think that she can read him, at least, enough to know that he is only afraid to try. It’s a lot harder to be good than it is to be bad. 

“Think about it,” she says, “As long as it takes. He will wait. And - ” she blames Clint for her moment of sentimentality, as if he taught her that all lost souls need only to meet another - “Barnes.” He looks at her, with the same hidden gleam of hopefulness, that made Natasha let the stray cat into her home in the first place. She feels another mistake forming; another _attachment_. “If you need me in the meantime, you can find me. I know you can do this alone… but you also don’t have to.”

Internally, her conscience is screaming, she is letting an unknown and dangerous man enter her life. _Again_. 

She walks away and knows she doesn’t need to look back, because this time, he won’t be throwing any bullets her way. 

She arrives back at her safehouse as dawn is rising, and before falling asleep, adds Bucky Barnes to her research list.

-

She wakes just past one o’clock but delays making the call until mid-afternoon. She’s been keeping tabs on Steve and Sam’s search for Barnes, of course she has, and knows they are currently in Nevada, searching an old Hydra facility for evidence. She also knows that they booked a hotel room with a double bed last night and she resents the amount of time she spent trying to work out what that meant. Nothing. It could mean nothing. Maybe they were posing as a couple, maybe the hotel had no twin rooms available, maybe Steve slept on the floor. It doesn’t matter, but she blames the uncertainty of their status on her nervousness when she calls them from a payphone down near the market. She doesn’t like not knowing. Over the noise of rustling plastic bags and shouting venders, she hears the call connect. 

“Tasha! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

It’s Sam’s voice, and she can’t help but smile upon hearing it. Always so warm. But there is no reason why it shouldn’t be. Nearly three weeks of research now, and the most worrying thing she’s found is that he cheated on his math test when he was fourteen and lied about it. The man went to war, but the only thing that worried her was his tendency to lie to cover failure. 

“Sam, it’s good to hear you. How are you?” she asks, in vain hope that the civilities will protect her from the inevitable conversation.

“Oh you know, just _super_. Today I got my ass thrown into a cacti bush, so that was fun. How’s tricks?”

Natasha desperately wants to hear the story behind that, and hear the tale of how it’s ultimately Steve’s fault (because it would be), but it’s harder to talk and not be there than she imagined. Perhaps nerves are best treated like a band-aid? “The usual,” she dismisses, then sighs and says, “I met our friend today.”

“Our…? Oh.” Sam says, his voice suddenly gaining in gravity. “Where?”

There’s a commotion in the background before she can answer, and she watches the bustle of the market, absently looking for thieves, while she listens to Sam and Steve murmur and the phone exchange hands.

“Natasha,” Steve greets. “What happened?” All business, of course, she expected nothing less, but what she doesn’t see coming is his next question: “Are you okay?” 

“I’m… fine. He’s not violent, Steve, at least, he was okay with me. Better than we anticipated.” She can practically hear Steve vibrating with optimism over the phone and it kills her what she has to tell him next, “‘But he’s… not ready.”

“What? What do you mean?” he asks. “Natasha?”

She closes her eyes against the assault on the senses, suddenly the market seems to bright and too loud. She rests her head against the phonebooth, breathing deeply before continuing. “He’s safe and he won’t cause harm, but you can’t come looking for him. He needs time.” And she’s not just talking about Barnes, they both know it, so she emphasises, “He needs time to work out who he is.”

“No. What we need to do is fix what they did to him. I can’t just leave him out there -”

“Maybe it can’t be fixed. Or maybe he needs to fix himself. You have to give him a chance to find out.”

She knows enough idiots in her life to know the sound of a man punching a wall when she hears it through phone static. She just hopes he didn’t use his full strength, or the hotel will claim damages. 

“You know I’m right, Steve. Keep checking the Hydra bases, help S.H.I.E.L.D. destroy what remains of their network, but don’t come looking for me, or him, he’ll find you when he’s ready.” _And so will I_ , she doesn’t say, but she knows he hears it anyway.

“Dammit Natasha, where have you even been?! Can’t you -?” His question turns into a groan. He sounds exhausted. He sounds at the end of his tether. But Sam’s there, he doesn’t need her to hold his hand. She hates that she even wants to be there. But it’s been three weeks and she still hasn’t found a reason not to trust him, except that she shouldn’t trust anyone. 

She knows him well enough to recognise the exact breath when Steve calms down and would listen to reason, but then she finds that she has nothing to say. Now the message is delivered, she could return to hiding away in safehouses, keep building her knowledge of them both until she feels reassured that her growing craving for dependence on them can be founded on something other than instinct. But do they even want that? It’s been weeks. They’re sharing a bed, or not sharing a bed, and when the fate of the world isn’t at stake, do they really have anything in common? Do they want a friend or only a ally? She doesn’t know. Or rather, she knows that she should cut and run, but that she desperately doesn’t want to. 

“Just - ” Steve starts. “Stay in touch? Please?”

Natasha leans against the payphone and feels her resolve crumbling. She may be head-strong but she knows her heart is attached in the way it cracks at the sound of him begging. “Okay,” she promises. “Okay.” 


	2. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha sees some familiar faces.

It’s hard to stay away after that, as much as she ought to. So Natasha changes her tactics, from secondary research, to first-hand, even if it does mean flying back to the East Coast. 

Sam is easy enough; a few of his ex-military friends are in town and looking for some fun, so all it takes is a little black dress and a few sultry looks, before they’re spilling classified information like free candy. 

She walks away an hour later, knowing that every single man and woman she spoke to trusted Sam with their lives. It’s almost embarrassing that the worst they could come up with, even after all her carefully placed openings for information, is that one night, Sam Wilson snuck out of left camp to investigate a suspicious noise only to come across two lovers in the height of passion: “He crawled back to camp with his tail between his legs, as awkward as you’ve ever seen the guy. And we’re like, ‘What is it, buddy? You need back up?’ and he’s like, ‘It’s nothing, it’s nothing.’” A story which his comrades seemed to find hilarious. 

Oh, and Sam was nearly dismissed for disobeying orders to save a man’s life, but that’s the kind of wrongdoing Natasha approves of. She is beginning to think that Sam Wilson is truly as good as he seems.

But she also knows that he got out for a reason. That he only got back in for Steve. And there’s a strong possibility that at some stage, Sam might want to leave this life behind for good. It’s hard to tell, but she resolves to watch for the signs.

Steve and Barnes are harder. There aren’t many people around who knew them pre-serum. That’s how she ends up at Peggy’s bedside. 

Natasha has worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. for long enough that they are no strangers. She doesn’t bother with an alias; if Peggy is having a good day, she will see through the disguise instantly, and if she is having a bad day, she will forget her visitor within minutes. There’s a security risk, but it’s a justified one, and she has contingencies. Natasha always has contingencies. 

“Hello Peggy,” she greets.

It’s a good day. She can see it in the way Peggy’s eyes light up in recognition. “Natasha, how lovely to see you.”

“And you as well,” she responds and closes the hospital door behind her. “How are you?”

“Restless. I’ve done this same jigsaw more times than I can count,” Peggy says, gesturing to the fold-out table that is positioned over the bed with chunks of Monet spread over it. There is a noticeable border in place at least.

“You should try doing it upside down next time.” 

Peggy twists a piece in her palm, confused.

“You put it together by the pattern of the grain. The picture’s not as pretty but...”

“You know,” Peggy muses, turning the puzzle piece upside down on the table, “I don’t think I ever would have thought of that.” 

They fall into silence and Natasha draws up a chair beside her. “You’re having a good day.”

“Am I?” Peggy asks.

“Last time I was here, you thought I was Jessica Rabbit.” 

Peggy laughs, but it turns into a cough that sounds more painful every time Natasha hears it. She passes Peggy the water on the table and she drinks it in careful small swallows. 

Peggy’s voice is quieter when she speaks again, as if the cough took all her energy, she lies back against her pillow, abandoning Monet for now, “You didn’t come here to talk about jigsaws, I’d wager.” 

Natasha smiles, Peggy was always in favour of cutting to the chase, a quality that she greatly admired. “I’m in need of your advice.”

“Oh?”

She thinks about how to phrase it, the best arrangement of words phrased as the best questions in the right order. “Did you hear about S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Natasha knows she did, it’s in the set of her shoulders, so she carries on, “Did you know?”

Peggy sighs. “I had suspicions back in the sixties, but they would not hear of it and I had no proof. I discovered one double agent, but I always thought… there could be more. I became paranoid. Saw traitors everywhere… It was an obsession, and eventually it was heavily suggested that I find a new focus, so I did,” she smiles sadly. 

“Do you regret it?”

“I will never regret founding S.H.I.E.L.D., I only regret that you have had to do the fighting that I should have done, that I wish I still had the strength to do.”

Natasha shakes her head, “You did fight. You had more sense than most. Than me. I never thought…”

“You trusted S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Peggy infers.

Natasha gives a tight nod. 

“And now you are questioning everything that you thought you could trust, is that it?”

Natasha bows her head, lets it rest in her hands for a moment, gives herself the time to regain her slipping mask. Peggy always has a way of seeing things as they are. She saw that Steve was a good man, even before everyone else declared him as one. 

“If it’s Steve you’re worried about…”

She looks up, they lock eyes. 

Peggy continues, now assured that she has guessed correctly, “You can trust him, but you know that. He has a good heart and a moral compass that no one can sway. And in my experience, he also has excellent taste in friends… one of which, I became very fond of... as, I imagine, you will too.”

They share a small smile and Natasha absently plays with a jigsaw piece to avoid an overdose of sentimentality. “Thank you,” she says, not because of the inadvertent compliment, but because in one sentence she has also eased her concern over Barnes. 

“You’re welcome,” Peggy replies. 

Natasha stays and helps with the jigsaw until the water lilies take shape and a doctor hurries her along. 

While she’s in the area, she drops by on Clint. Literally. There is something immensely satisfying about making her old friend fall from his couch in fright. 

When he’s done swearing at her and when she’s done teasing him, they watch an action film (pointing out all the obvious flaws) and order Chinese food with Lucky snooping around the cartons in hope of scraps. Natasha knows Clint sees the arrow necklace he gave her around her neck, but he doesn’t comment on it, and she doesn’t ask what happened with his latest girl. They’ve become very good at not talking about what’s between them. It’s beyond words at this point; beyond definition. 

All credit to Kate when she walks through the door, she just shrugs, grabs the _chow mein_ and flops on the sofa behind them, joining in with the mockery. It’s… nice. It feels like family. She doesn’t know how Clint manages to have a home, especially when it’s so prone to infiltration as her little trick proved, but she’s more jealous of his grimy little apartment than she’s willing to admit. It’s not the place so much as the feeling. The space casually shared. _Home is where the hurt is_ , and that’s why she never stays for long, too scared that she too will start calling this comforting place home. 

Kate and Lucky are drooling on the sofa by the time Natasha leaves. Clint walks her to the door. He has a slight limp, due to a knee injury he sustained last week (“I was defying the laws of gravity, Nat, you should be impressed,”) and the longevity spent on the floor that evening probably didn’t help. 

“Sure you don’t want to stay?”

“You know I can’t.”

Clint nods, and is part-way through closing the door, when he seems to change his mind and reaches for her. “I thought you were off the grid. I tried to call last week and Isaiah said - “

“I am. I just… needed to see a familiar face.”

“And Super Soldier and Bird Boy wouldn’t do?”

Natasha opens her mouth to argue but Clint rolls his eyes as if her reaction was entirely predictable, “Yes, yes, I know about that,” he says dryly. “It’s been superhero gossip for weeks. Word is they hooked up and you freaked out.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Sure, but just while we’re on this topic… and maybe to settle a bet with Bruce… is it Dorito or Wings that’s got you all jealous?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Both then?”

“Clint,” she says in warning.

“Alright, alright,” he says, arms up in mock surrender. “Can’t blame a guy for trying to win fifty bucks.”

“You bet fifty dollars on this?!”

Clint at least has the decency to look ashamed, “Yeah, well, it’s only because I lost the Bucky bet and then it was double or nothing so…”

“‘Bucky bet?’”

“You know, on whether his programming was still functioning enough that he’d come back and finish the job, we put two weeks on it, and Steve’s still alive so…” 

“You’re a terrible person.”

Clint grins. “I am, but you love me anyway.” 

“God knows why,” she mutters.

“Eh,” he shrugs. “Can’t help the young, dashing men, you fall in love with,” he teases, flexing his biceps in an obvious pose.

Natasha stifles a laugh. Annoyingly, he does have a point. “You’re such an egoist. I’m going now before you can insult me any further…”

“Nat,” he calls. 

She turns back to face him. He’s silhouetted in the doorframe by the inside light, it looks warm, welcoming. And she craves home with a sudden intensity; that she could come home to a sight like this: a friendly face, a warm house, in a cold night of darkness. Something known. Something dependable. 

“You realise there’s always a leap of faith, right?” he says. “You can’t know everything about everything, at a certain point, you just have to trust your instincts.” He runs his hand through his hair; a nervous tic of his. “I mean, when we first met, you _said_ you didn’t trust me, but your _actions_ … I just think you ought to trust your trust instinct.” Even in the dim light, she can see his face screw up as he tries to work out the messiness of his sentence. “You know what I mean. You deserve to be able to trust… something.”

She can only nod, and turn away into the quiet night. 

_No one deserves anything_ , she’d told Barnes, so the question she ought to be asking herself is has she built a good case for trusting? 


	3. Found and Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is found, someone is lost.

It’s been a month, and Natasha is starting to lose her focus. The longer she hides away, the easier it is to find excuses not to return. It’s been too long now. What’s to say Steve and Sam haven’t forgotten all about her? It’s melodramatic, but it doesn’t mean it hasn’t crossed her mind. The “research” she does is minimal now, mostly, she drifts; anything to avoid the terrifying thought of making her conclusion.

Barnes finds her in Seattle. It’s raining. This safehouse is a loft conversation and every splatter on the slanted windows sounds like bullets. She lies awake convincing herself that she is safe, but every time she nears sleep, a new sound comes cracking across the apartment. So she pays no mind to another scrape and rattle until her eyes slip open sleepily to see a change in the shadows. 

She’s up and battle ready in less time than it would take most people to blink. The gun that was under her pillow is now pointed at the man climbing through the bay window, but he is unruffled by the threat, only finishes his movement, stands up straight and takes down his hood. A puddle of water forms at his feet. By the streetlamps, she can see his face, and the glint of his arm. No weapons. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t deadly. 

“It only took me a day to find you,” Barnes says. He sounds much better; more confident, and speaks in fluent English but the accent is indistinguishable. 

“I’d expect no less,” she says, but she doesn’t lower her gun, not yet.

“The postcards were clever.” 

Natasha shrugged with one shoulder. “Not really.”

“Risky sending them to a drug dealer’s safehouse.”

“You and I both know he only checked the drop-off point once a day and you always arrived before he did. Even if I got unlucky, he would not have known the sender. It only had significance to you.”

“You knew I was stealing from him.”

“I knew you took as much money as you needed to live, and that he would not notice as missing. It was a good set-up you had.”

“How did you know I would stay there?”

“I didn’t.”

“I could have sold you out.”

“You could have.”

They study each other in the dim light, weighing each other up. Eventually, Barnes nods solemnly, “I could have.” 

But he didn’t, and he won’t. She lowers her gun. He closes the window. She turns on a lamp.

“I don’t need you,” he says.

She smiles sadly. He is only saying it to say it, not because it’s true, although it might be. It’s said in the same way she tells people she doesn’t trust them. The level of truth is irrelevant. So she doesn’t dignify it with a response, instead she stares at him in the orange glow that the lamp casts across the room. There is so much to know. 

Start with the simple questions, she thinks. “When was the last time you ate?”

Barnes spends a long time thinking. “An hour ago,” he says finally.

“Did you forget?” she asks, worried that recalling such a simple fact is so straining for him.

“Not quite. It’s more like…” he gestures to his mind as he tries to find the words. “Time is fragmented sometimes. Things from the past can feel real, like they’re happening, and so things like burritos can be forgotten.”

“Okay,” she says. That she can understand. “Do you remember the last time you slept?”

He looks confused again, as if he’s trying very hard to work it out. She supposes if his flashbacks really are so severe, and it’s one nightmare after another, it might be difficult to tell when he is awake or sleeping. “No,” he says finally, and it’s enough to make her heart ache. 

“Then maybe you should try that,” she suggests.

He shakes his head, “No. Can’t. I cannot rest in unfamiliar territory,” he says like a well-rehearsed line. His eyes dart around the room, and not because of nerves; she’s a spy, she can tell when someone is checking for exit routes and weapons and strategizing three steps ahead of every possible outcome. She has a feeling she might lose Barnes to the Winter Soldier if she doesn’t distract him soon. 

“Wanna watch TV?”

“What?” 

The distraction worked; Barnes is looking at her once more, with curiosity rather than caution. 

“It’s nearly midnight, there’s probably a run of a reality show on a cable channel somewhere…” 

Barnes doesn’t look convinced.

She tries again, “Or cartoons, whatever you want.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, and there’s a barely concealed excitement to it. “They still make cartoons?”

Natasha wants to study him for his reactions, but she knows that he’s good enough to catch her spying and the last thing she needs is to make him uncomfortable, so instead, she sits on one end of the couch at an angle, and doesn’t comment on how he takes the other end like it’s a territory to defend. She turns on the TV and finds the cartoon channel. 

The first few minutes are spent in tense silence, but then she sees his eyes focus and his shoulders relax, and twenty three minutes later, a quiet laugh comes, and Natasha finally lets go of the knife hidden in the couch cushion, and lets herself feel as relaxed as her posture implies. 

In the end, she doesn’t know who falls asleep first, as they were both hosting a war between their espionage instincts and their bonecold tiredness. 

She is woken by a kick to her leg. Her eyes tear open to see Bucky having an episode on the couch. She doesn’t know what else to call it. It looks more like an epileptic fit than a nightmare. He is sweating, and writhing, and weeping, and kicking his legs wildly as if trying to escape from an invisible net. She should leave him. You shouldn’t wake someone from a nightmare, especially someone as damaged and as unpredictable as Barnes, but it physically hurts her to watch this display. Sam would know what to do, what to say, but he isn’t here. God, she wishes he was here. 

She takes a deep breath and approaches him. “Barnes,” she tries whispering softly. “Barnes,” a little louder. “Bucky?”

He startles awake, crawling back further into the couch, away from her, shaking, eyes wide. 

She approaches cautiously. “Deep breaths. You’re safe, okay? Barnes. Look at me.”

His eyes begin to move towards her voice and when they catch, he explains, “I was falling from a train. Was it a nightmare?” His eyes dart back and forth, scanning for danger in the dark room. “People dream about falling.”

Natasha closes her eyes. Prepares herself. 

“No,” he rectifies before she can speak. “That happened. Did that happen? I don’t… I don’t know, I -”

His breaths are still coming too fast. She should calm him down, but she doesn’t know how. She is still thinking what to say when she hears it; a broken cry of “Steve” so quiet she could have misheard.

Barnes buries his head into his body. He can make himself look so small. One hand clutches at his bionic arm. He’s remembering. She wants to reach out and comfort him, but she doesn’t know the last time he was touched, doesn’t know what it might trigger. He makes the choice for her in the end, reaching out and twining their hands together - his flesh hand, that is, his metal arm is hidden between his legs as if he’s ashamed of it. “Tell me, please…”

She brushes her thumb against his palm ever so gently as she explains that, “Yes, it happened. You fell. That’s when Hydra found you.”

He’s shaking his head. “No. Not that. I know that. I mean. Steve. Tell me about Steve.”

Her breath catches in surprise, but then she sees his eyes beginning to droop and understands; he doesn’t want to know the gritty reality, he wants a fairytale. But that doesn’t mean she can’t weave some truth, some encouragements, into the web of the story. She nestles him onto her shoulder and strokes his hair like a child, pulling the blanket over them but never letting go of his hand. She can give comfort. She remembers how. And as she begins to tell the fantastical tale of aliens in New York City, she feels his shivers begin to subside. 

She wakes in the same position, and with a crick in her neck. She straightens out, trying not to wake him, but of course he wakes; not with the violence he did last night, but with an ease and familiarity that scares her. His eyes are closed and she wonders if he is elsewhere in his mind. A free arm searches for the handle of the knife. She doesn’t trust his sleepy sniffles and the way he nuzzles into her neck. This man _shot_ her. How can this seemingly innocent lost boy be the same man that shot her in cold blood? 

The answer, when it comes to her, is of course very simple: he _isn’t_ the same man. The similarities in her past and his - the manipulation, the nightmares, the training that only has one purpose - led her to believe that they are the same, but they’re not, because Barnes used to be someone else before he became a weapon, whereas this life is all that she’s ever known. Barnes used to be a good person, and it’s possible that he can be again. 

Her grip loosens on the knife, and as if he senses her ease, he blinks awake a little further, and she is staring into the sleepy and trusting eyes of a good man. Her breath catches. She doesn’t remember the last time she was close enough to feel another’s heartbeat, and not planning twenty steps ahead. When was the last time she had a kiss that was not part of a plan? Even when she kissed Steve on the run from Hydra, it was to serve as a distraction, although, she wishes it weren’t. She wishes she could have devoted her full attention to his little gasp of surprise, his slack lips, the warmth of his body cautiously pressed against hers… especially if she knew it would be the only time. She needs to stop. She shouldn’t be thinking about kissing Barnes; there are subtleties reflected in every thought, and Barnes, like her, knows how to read them. He _knows_. He’s still only half-awake but there’s a soft smile of comprehension and Natasha has a split second to decide. She could walk away. She could....

She doesn’t. She meets him halfway for the kiss. 

It’s so chaste that her heart constricts with the innate fragility of it; a moment so small, so precious, so _peaceful_ that it can only break. Her hand comes to cradle his cheek. The tingle from the press of lips against hers dances down her spine until she’s buzzing with it. There is stubble scratching against her fingertips, the tickle of his unkempt hair against her chin, and the roughly chapped lips moving so shyly against hers. She holds on to the memory of all of it, ready, as always, for it to be ripped away. 

She feels it first: the quick intake of breath that signals change. He tenses. Pulls away. His eyes are wide and unblinking. Awake, now. And already regretting.

He tears out of her apartment, jumping out of the bay window, and shattering the quiet with the sudden sound of the streets below. 

She stares at the gray sky, long after he has gone, waiting for the calm to return. It does, eventually. 

-

That afternoon, she is working on a new alias, when she gets a phonecall. She searches under the reams of paper and forged documents to find her disposable cell phone. She hasn’t used it once since she left D.C., much preferring to contact people through payphones, but it’s her emergency number, and anyone calling must have been intercepted by Isaiah first.

The screen displays one of Stark’s numbers. A heavy weight of dread clenches in her stomach.

“Romanoff,” she answers.

“Natasha, it’s Maria,” Hill greets. The use of her first name isn’t as comforting as she probably thinks it is. “I understand you’re off-grid right now, but I’ve heard some news.”

Natasha straightens, battle ready. “What happened?” she asks, begging to whichever gods listen that this call is not about Sam and Steve. _They’re safe, they’re safe, they’re in a cabin in Ceour D’Alene forest in Idaho, they’re safe._

Hill sighs. It’s obviously bad news, and she doesn’t want to be the one to break it.

“Maria,” she urges.

“Peggy Carter passed away in her sleep early this morning.”

Natasha sucks in a sharp breath. It feels like she’s been punched in the gut; completely winded, as bad as that time in Shanghai, crumpled under a market stall with a gun pointed at her face. 

Hill elaborates, “I know you were close, so I thought you - “

“Yes, thank you.” She breathes out slowly. Closes her eyes. “Was it - ?”

“The doctor said it was peaceful.”

There’s no such thing as a good death, but still, Peggy deserved better. They should have been there. Had Sam even met her? Did Steve say goodbye before he left to find Barnes? She doesn’t know. “Was anyone with her?” she asks, and hates how her voice catches on the words. She always tries not to get attached. It happens anyway. 

“It was just past two this morning, Natasha,” Hill says softly. “No one was awake.”

_I was._

_We were._

She was likely holding Barnes in her arms the very moment when Peggy passed away. 

Natasha looks to the package waiting by the door. She should’ve sent it as soon as she bought it, but she was so looking forward to giving it to her in person, seeing Peggy’s face…

Natasha swallows the lump in her throat and asks the question that crossed her mind much sooner than she ought to admit to: “Does Steve know?”

“Yes. He’s been notified. There’s one other thing…”

 _No_ , Natasha wants to say, _Don’t you dare add bureaucracy to this_. “Pepper says you’ve been in contact with Barnes.”

She bites her lip as a memory of the kiss surfaces. “Contact” is one way of putting it…

Hill continues, “We haven’t told Tony… yet, but we’d all prefer it if you would transfer the problem to the Tower.”

The _problem_?

“I’m sure you would,” Natasha says. 

A moment of silence follows, and then, “I’ll tell them you’re handling it then, shall I?”

A smile pulls at her lips. She likes Maria when she’s not being used as a puppet. “You do that.”

She’s about to hang up when Maria asks, “Are you going to tell Barnes about Peggy?”

“I...” Natasha starts, and fails, attempting to picture how Barnes will react from the pieces she has been given. “I don’t know,” she says finally, surprised more than anything to find that it’s true. “I don’t know.”

She hangs up and lets her head fall into her hands. 

On the way out to find a stiff drink, she throws the package into the trash can. What good is a thousand piece Van Gogh now? The notecard flutters out and falls open, mocking her:

_In case you get tired of the grain ~ N.R._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY.


	4. Returning A Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha goes dancing.

At six o’clock, Natasha finally slows down her intake of vodka and goes to find a club. If she doesn’t find a release for her grief, she will cry, or fuck, or kill, or maybe even score a hattrick. 

She returns to the safehouse to change into an outfit that could kill (literally, and figuratively) but mostly just to leave her phone behind. (If she has to listen to the unanswered ring on Sam’s phone one more time, she’s likely to break the damn thing into pieces.) _They’re safe_ , she assures herself. Steve’s probably gone off the reservation and hiding it in heroics, and Sam’s probably there patching him back together. They’re fine. But it doesn’t stop her from wanting to call them relentlessly anyway.

She walks past a dozen clubs until she finds an all-night salsa bar. Dancing is a part of her, she can admit now; she may not be able to stand the sight of ballet shoes, but that doesn’t mean that the passion, the rhythm, the beauty, and the exquisite feeling of release, isn’t transferable. It is. And in salsa, the beat is so quick, she does not have the opportunity to dwell on anything else but the dance.

She moves from partner to partner, but she only appreciates the decisive ones, no matter how experienced. It is refreshing, once in awhile, to let someone else make the decisions. It’s a trust exercise; letting a stranger lead her; some succeed and some fail and some have more than dancing on their mind. She falls into the rhythm of the click of her heels on the wooden floor and the twirl of her black dress on the fourth beat. The fast relentless beat of the music pushes her to be lead by stranger after stranger. As the night progresses, the music becomes louder, the clientele drunker, the ruedas more chaotic, but still she does not stop. She is afraid to. 

With every twist, she sees someone she loves, and with every last beat, she sees them die. She never thought of age as a problem before, not in this business where they all die young, but if Peggy can live then maybe she can too; live old enough to see Nick Fury die… and Clint, Maria, Isaiah… Sam… even Kate. They’ll all leave her. But Natasha’s aging is only slowed. Who knows for how many years Steve will be alone for? Unless Barnes…

Barnes floats in front of her vision. She is so lost in her thoughts, that it isn’t until a cold, gloved hand, presses into hers that she realises this time the sight is not her imagining. 

“Barnes,” she says suspiciously. “How did you - ?”

She breaks off; there’s no point in asking how he found her, he’s well trained, but what _is_ worrying is that she did not see him coming. Has she let her guard down so much? Or does he no longer register as a threat? She gives a mandatory glance to the exits and the clientele but there is nothing unusual, only the man in front of her.

Barnes smiles cheekily at her, in a way that reminds her of the black and white photos in the Smithsonian. 

Her previous dancing partner that Barnes must have intercepted skulks away with a muttered curse, but Barnes only smirks further. “‘Bout time you should be calling me James, surely.”

Is he acting? She doesn’t know, but this is an entirely different creature to the one she encountered this morning, or last night, or on the streets of San Francisco.

He starts moving on the next downbeat and his steps are flawless, guiding her into a mambo in an open hold. He confidently signals her for a ladies turn and she follows through without thinking. 

“When did you learn how to salsa?” she asks before she can stop herself. 

His face falls slightly but the mischievous sparkle in his eye remains. Not acting then. Only… happy? She can’t quite work it out. “My handlers at the time considered it necessary,” he says.

“Hmm.” What surprises her even more than the dance, is his clothes. He’s found a suit jacket from somewhere. He’s placed it over a faded tee and his hair is pulled back into an artfully messy ponytail. Even his gloves, that disguise his arm, are not the tatty cotton ones she’s seen before, but leather. “You look good,” she murmurs, and then wonders how much she must have drunk to be failing so utterly tonight.

He shrugs, as he leads her into a more complicated turn. He’s changing hand holds, leading into a memorised sequence, no doubt. 

“I’d say the same,” he says, “but, Natalia, when did you last take a break?”

She supposes it’s been a while, but she’s hardly going to stop now when she has the best partner of the night. He’s smoothly led her into a hammerlock, walking her backwards, and she knows what comes next. On the beat, they snap sideways, his feet keeping count as she spins back towards him, but he stops her with a gentle push from a raised hand, spinning her out and back in again. When he finally lets her return to him, it’s into a closed hold, and she’s beaming at him. He smiles and then looks away, embarrassed. 

She hasn’t let anyone hold her in a closed hold for more than two moves all night but she’s content to closely mambo with him for a little while. 

“You weren’t at home,” he whispers into her ear. 

They’re so close that the shifting air tickles her hair. His body is pressed tightly against hers; she can feel his warmth and his strength, and it would be easy to let herself indulge in it. 

“That’s not my home,” she rebutts.

He sighs and the movement brushes his lips down her neck. She shivers and curses her bodily reaction when a warmth blooms southwards. She closes her eyes, as he moves her back and forth, back and forth… 

“What do you want from me?” she whispers. 

“To repay a favor.” 

“What favor?”

She can feel him shift to look at her, but she keeps her eyes fixed over his shoulder. He is not leading so insistently anymore; they both know the steps. “You found me when I needed you.”

“I don’t need you,” she says automatically. 

He smiles at her and she rolls her eyes, having realised her mistake of repeating exactly what he said to her yesterday, and what she had refused to believe. They really are made of similar stuff. 

“Fine,” he says, in the same dismissive voice she probably used on him, “but at least let me return a few words of advice.” 

She goes to step out of this embrace but in the closed hold, he only need to push his palm into her back to dissuade her. Panic rises upon realising she’s been caught in such a vulnerable position, and _willingly,_ at that. The pressure on her back eases as if he senses her discomfort. He’s not the enemy, not anymore, and instinctively she knew that, or she would not have let him get so close in the first place. Clint is right; she ought to trust her trust instinct. Barnes guides her back into an open hold and indulges her in a few more impressive moves, and it’s all she needs to reassure her of his good intentions. When he pulls her back into a closed hold, she is ready to listen, but he waits for her to ask, and for that she is even more grateful. 

“What is it I need to hear then?”

“That people die,” he says bluntly. “People will always die, but it can’t stop you living.” 

Natasha closes her eyes and follows his steps blindly. It has thrown her so far off-course that her first instinct is to take the defensive. To ask what a defrosted amnesiac assassin knows about mourning. Tell him how many people died at his hands. Leave. But his bionic hand grips hers with such understanding that she cannot do it. She sighs and follows her next instinct; the one - illogically - that urges to find out if he’s okay. “You know?”

“The puzzle in the trash.”

Natasha curses under her breath. How could she be so careless? Barnes shouldn’t have to find out like this. She should have found him, not the other way around. She tilts her head on his shoulder to study him. She thought he was acting oddly, but now she knows what it was the mask was hiding, it is easier to see underneath. He’s in pain. 

He notices her watching, and explains, “I meant to see her… When I was ready to find Steve, I was going to ask if we could see her… Now my excuses for not going seem trivial. I could’ve gone alone, but… it didn’t seem right. And I thought I might scare her, or she might have forgotten…” he swallows his grief, looks away to blink back tears, and Natasha lets her thumb stroke the back of his neck in comfort.

“She didn’t forget you,” Natasha whispers. Barnes was one of the last things that they had spoken about; how fond Peggy had become of Barnes, _“as, I imagine, you will too.”_ Natasha closes her eyes. _Oh, Peggy, if only you knew..._

He presses his face into her neck, hiding his eyes, though she can feel the suppressed sobs rack his body. She uses the hand on his neck to guide his face towards hers. They must have stopped dancing at some point, as now they both stand staring at each other on the dancefloor, as others circle around them. She doesn’t want to submit to tears, but she needs, she needs…

Her lips find his, and this time there is no mistaking the intention behind the kiss. It’s hungry and desperate, and this time, as he presses them closer, she does not ignore the pounding of blood, but welcomes it, and lets it consume her. She sucks on his bottom lip, feeling him harden against her, his hands tangling in her hair with just the right amount of pressure.

She breaks away with a gasp. “Home,” she says, pushing him out of the door.

This time she doesn’t dispute the saying. Home is where the hurt is, and she has a feeling that she’s in for a lot of hurt. 


	5. Self-Destruct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, Natasha gets a call from Sam.

Natasha is woken by a phone call. Barnes wakes up at the same time. They are both too well trained to ignore an unusual sound. 

He’s sprawled naked beside her in the small bed, so he only needs to reach out to tug at her gently, encouraging her to go back to sleep. She’s tired enough to; it was past one when they fell into the apartment, stripped each other hurriedly, and fucked as chaotically as two lonely and desperate people could do, on the wooden floor, before crawling under the covers of the twin bed. They fell straight to sleep. Thinking back on it, she doesn’t even remember being stirred awake by his nightmares. They both needed the sleep, she supposes. And the sex. She hadn’t realised he had been so stressed until she witnessed the slump of his shoulders as he let go and the complete bonelessness of him afterwards as he tucked himself in next to her, strangely sweet after such an animalistic coming together. 

She’s not sure if it was as therapeutic for her. It was at the time, but this morning, guilt sits on her shoulders, heavy and pressing. It’s not like she made promises to either Sam or Steve, and they seem perfectly fine without her, but she has a feeling that she might have violated an unwritten rule. Someone is going to get hurt in the messy love affairs between them. It doesn’t help her conscience that even while fucking Barnes, Clint’s arrow hung between them like a reminder. Barnes thumbed it later, a question in his eyes, and all she could answer was “a complication”. It’s messy. But she remembers the way she clutched at Barnes’ back, whispered “James” as her climax took her and opened her eyes to see a look of absolute marvel on his face, and it makes it difficult to regret her actions. Her cheeks burn with the memory. It would be all too easy to stay in bed and repeat the mistake. To pretend that such wonderful closeness was achievable and never-ending, but to kiss him good morning would be inviting disaster. 

He’s still clutching her, the phone is still ringing, and her choice is not really a choice at all. 

“It could be Steve,” she says, and with that, Barnes lets her go.

She finds the phone from where she abandoned it last night. Five missed calls. Two messages. And a current call from… _Sam_. 

“Fuck,” she curses.

Barnes is out of bed in an instance and beside her. “What is it?”

“Sam and Steve have been calling, and, I… fuck.” She answers the phone, “Sam? Are you okay?”

“Tasha, thank god,” Sam greets in a rush, “Oh, thank god, I’ve been trying to call, where’ve you been? Look, I’m freaking out. It’s Steve, he’s…”

Natasha feels Barnes press closer behind her, his ear next to the phone, his palm on her waist. They’re both still naked. The guilt swallows her whole. 

“He’s disappeared,” Sam says. 

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?” Natasha asks, exchanging a worried look with Barnes. “What happened? Are you still in Coeur D’Alene?” 

“Yeah. How’d you - ?” he huffs, as if remembering he’s friends with a spy and such things are to be expected. “Yeah, we’re still there,” he confirms. “We got the call about Peggy, and I thought Stevie was doing okay but -”

Natasha is already dressing one-handed and packing as she goes. Barnes wordlessly follows suit.

“He went for a walk yesterday afternoon to get some space and then… nothing.” 

Natasha has been forming hypotheses and their solutions in her head since Sam started talking, but really, it’s impossible to do anything until she knows more. Plotting keeps her from losing her mind. She zips up her toiletries bag. 

“I called Stark-” Sam says, and she swears she can hear Barnes bristle from the main room “-but there’s only so much he can do, and he said he’s tied up in New York, but I bet you he’s found out about Bucky somehow and is pissed about it. They’ve given us some satellite footage that might help, but… Tasha,” he sighs, “I need you.” 

Her heart squeezes painfully at the confession; something tells her he means more than her skill set.

“Will you come?”

“Of course,” she says. She walks out of the bathroom to see Barnes ready to go. “We’ll be there.”

“We?” Sam asks. “You’ve got Bucky?” He sounds hopeful, not concerned or angry as she feared he might be. 

“Yes. Hold tight, okay? If it’s foul play, I need you safe.”

“You’ve got it,” he says. “Hurry.” 

She hangs up, squeezes her eyes shut, and presses her lips to the phone in an imitation of a kiss. _They’ll be okay_ , she reassures herself. But they shouldn’t have been in danger in the first place. Why wasn’t she there?

She opens her eyes. Barnes has his rucksack slung over his shoulder and is picking up her bag by the door. Peggy’s jigsaw still sits in the trash can beside him.

She takes the bag out of his hands. “I know you’re coming. I’m not stupid enough to stop you, but you’re not combat ready, Barnes.” 

His face falls, whether it is at the regression to his last name, or at the order itself, she doesn’t know. 

She talks over the protestations she knows are coming, “Until we know what the hell Hydra programmed in that head of yours, I don’t want you near a weapon.” 

Natasha’s already walking down the stairs when he follows. “What the...? That’s bullshit. You can’t give me orders. We at least have to talk about this… Come on!” he says, catching up to her. “I’m fine!”

“And I want to believe that, but I also don’t trust Hydra not to have a contingency plan.” 

“What if Steve’s in danger? You can’t just expect me to - And I’m not going to hurt you-” 

“You think _that_ ’s why I’m worried?” she exclaims, turning to face him on the bottom step. “Think of it this way, Barnes: what would Hydra do with a rogue agent?”

“Terminate them,” he says without feeling. Then his face changes to one of confusion as he works out Natasha’s primary concern. “Oh. You’re not worried that I’ll turn on you…“ he says cautiously, as he obviously thought he was arguing against that up until now, “No, you think they programmed a… what? A self-destruct in case of misuse?” 

“It’s possible, yes.”

He shakes his head. “I was too valuable to them.” 

“I hope that’s true,” she says.

Barnes loses his defensive stance almost immediately, and lowers his voice, “You can’t expect me to stand by patiently while I know you’re out there risking your life to save Steve.”

“With any luck, there won’t be any ‘risk’ involved. He was grieving and not thinking straight. He’s probably just hiding out somewhere, or, run fifty miles and not realised it, or fallen down a cliff and broken his leg.” 

Barnes winces. “I’m not sure I like that as our best case scenario.” 

Natasha smiles bitterly. “Me neither.” She squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she says, even though neither of them believe it. “Though, if you like,” she concedes, “we can wait for Sam’s assessment as to whether you’re fit for duty.” 

She leads them out of the building towards the car she’s been using.

“Your Falcon’s a doctor?” Barnes asks as they throw their bags in the trunk. 

The sun is high. It must be later than she thought. They should still make Idaho before dark.

She smirks. “Not exactly. But he’ll know.” 

He nods, but doesn’t ask further questions. 

They listen to a local radio station as they drive away from the city and into the countryside. 

It was lucky her safehouse was nearby; when S.H.I.E.L.D. was fully operational, getting a flight last minute with no questions asked and a suitcase full of weapons was easy, even if the helicarriers were busy, but now it proves much more difficult. 

Natasha wonders on what level they were conscious of inching closer to each other; a month ago she was on opposite sides of the country to Sam and Steve. Without a catalyst, she wonders how much longer they would have danced this dance. Maybe it was inevitable she would go back to them eventually. 

She calls Sam once they’re on the I-90 heading east to reassure him they’ll be there before nightfall, and also to check he’s collecting all the information Natasha can possibly think of as useful. They’ll spend the evening planning and the morning searching or rescuing, whichever it turns out is needed, and hopefully that will be all it takes to get Steve home. She always hates the waiting period before missions, when everything that could possibly go wrong plays through her head, and paired with Barnes’ fidgeting in the passenger seat, it’s enough to stress her out.

She also suspects that Sam will be blaming himself for losing Steve. She knows Sam will consider it a failure, and if there’s one thing her research uncovered, it’s that he doesn’t handle failure well. Natasha feels completely useless; she can’t even be there to hold his hand and stop him from self-destructing. If Sam does something rash, it’s on her. 

She thought by staying away she was protecting them, but maybe it was staying away that caused them harm. 

They park at a rest stop and she breathes a sigh of relief. It’s an excuse for caffeine and sugar and five minutes away from her thoughts and from Barnes. He’s been as fidgety and as anxious as a ticking bomb the whole ride. How is it while trying to escape two men that drove her crazy, she ended up with another? She doesn’t know whether she wants to tie him up or kiss him quiet, or, a newly awakened part of her brain argues, _both_.

A few minutes is all it takes to have her feeling calm again, to push her own worries under the surface, and they get back in the car and get back on the freeway. Sam calls her back to ask a question about the types of buildings he should be making notes on, and perimeters, and traffic cameras, and such, and when she hangs up, Barnes’ anxiety has been replaced with speculation. 

“Makes sense,” he states. She assumes he’s talking about the research until he elaborates, “Both military. Both got that…” he waves his hand, as if trying to chase down the words, “boy scout, good as gold thing going on…” 

Natasha takes her eyes off the road to examine him for a minute. That is the face of a jealous man. 

Barnes asks, “They’re together, aren’t they?”

“As I understand it.” 

Something in her voice must have given her away, because Barnes smirks before looking out of the window. 

“Were you…?” she starts to ask, because if she doesn’t ask now, she doesn’t know when she will. “Was there something between you and Steve?”

She glances towards Barnes again, but he’s looking out of the window with glazed eyes, and all she has to go from is the back of his head (his hair is tied back in a messy ponytail again, which she finds more attractive than it ought to be) and half of his reflection being swallowed by passing woodland verge. 

“It was the forties,” he answers plainly.

“Right, so…?”

“It wasn’t encouraged.” His face betrays nothing, but his hands twist into the sleeves of his tee. “Even if I… I was never sure if he… “ he trails off and begins again, “It would have been too easy to lose him entirely, so I played it safe, or _we_ did, I suppose. Besides,” he says, shrugging it off, “We both liked the dames too. It wasn’t a hardship,” he concludes, although the way his fingernails are digging into his palm tell a different story.

She can sense he regrets starting this conversation. His last sentence was obviously a dismissal but there’s something that she has to know, especially if their tangle of relationships are about to collide. “James,” she says cautiously, “the last I saw Peggy, she said she was very fond of _both_ of you. I -” she exhales and lets the flock of birds overhead calm her. “Were you... _fond_ of her too?” she asks.

He looks so uncomfortable that she feels guilty for asking but then his fidgeting slowly stills and he turns marginally towards her. “Does that make me a terrible person?” he whispers, and she can’t help but remember their first encounter back in California: _“Do you think I deserve to live, Natalia?”_

Natasha breaks the eye contact and looks out ahead down the long and empty road. “I hope not,” she admits. “I hope it’s not a crime to love more than your share, or I am a terrible person too.”

The radio is playing an old country song, something suitably sad and wistful, and, just as the town of Ceour D’Alene appears on the horizon, she feels his cold bionic fingers intertwine with hers.


	6. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio plan how to get Steve back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter but there wasn't a good place to split it! 
> 
> Also, you may have noticed that I haven't tagged any warnings for this fic because everything gets thrown at these guys (and hey, if you've survived a character death and are still reading then you're doing well) but I do feel for this chapter that I ought to warn for SELF-HARM and post a teeny weeny disclaimer that I am by no means an expert on mental health and have no idea if Sam's advice in this chapter is actually good advice IRL or whether it's just useful for Plot Reasons and Character Development Reasons... Actually that's probably a good disclaimer for the entire fic: PROBABLY NOT COOL IRL.

Barnes is nervous as hell by the time they finally pull up to the cabin. She understands it; Barnes doesn’t know Sam, and no amount of comforting from her will ease his worry. He’s noticeably scouting out the area as they approach, but Natasha is more worried about what they’ll find inside; the state Sam will have worked himself into worrying about Steve. 

Natasha doesn’t even make it past the porch when the door flies open and she has all 6’2” of a distressed soldier wrapped tightly over and around her. Out the corner of her eye, she sees Barnes startle at the ambush and stay alert even as she wraps her arms around Sam the best she can in return, and lets him squeeze her tight.

“Missed you,” he whispers into her neck.

She closes her eyes and lets herself melt into his embrace. “You too.”

“Don’t ever do that to us again. If you’re gonna disappear, you’ve at least call more than once a fucking month.”

Natasha cringes, especially when she feels Barnes getting ready to strike; she gives him a signal behind her back to _stand the fuck down_. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I had some stuff to work out.”

He pulls back so they’re at arms length. Apparently he’s not ready to let her go just yet. Does she really disappear so often that people have the urge to literally hold her in place? 

“So,” Sam asks with a knowing smile, “what did you find out about me while you were ‘working some stuff out’?”

She smiles and wonders when she became so easy to read. “That you cheated on your Eighth grade math test.” 

“That all?” he challenges.

“All that matters.”

She holds his gaze until he nods in acceptance. 

Finally, he looks away from Natasha towards his other guest. “Bucky,” he says, reaching out to shake his hand, “Good to make your reacquaintance.”

Barnes suspiciously takes his hand. “Falcon.”

Sam doesn’t seem put off by his clipped tone, he just smiles. “Most people call me Sam.”

Barnes doesn’t comment, and just when Natasha is giving up hope and about to usher them inside he says, “Sorry I broke your wings.”

Sam shrugs. “Wasn’t you.”

Barnes’ forehead wrinkles in confusion, he looks between Sam and Natasha, trying to find the logic. “It was me,” he says, “In Washington, I - ” 

Sam is acting casually, but Natasha can tell he’s analysing every single word and twitch of unease coming from Barnes. Once a counsellor, always a counsellor. “Forget it, buddy. As far as I’m concerned, you’re Tasha’s friend come to save the day. That’s all.”

There’s the smallest smile on Barnes’ face and it’s enough to make her heart ache. Of course Sam is full of forgiveness and knows what to say to put Barnes at ease. 

She waits until the moment comes to a natural end and then she turns to Sam, all business, “Show me what you have.”

It turns out what Sam has is a shitload of information and no idea what to do with it. He’s a good tactician and soldier, but not so much an analyst. Once he’s shown her the ropes, she starts looking it over as he cooks them dinner, and Barnes does a perimeter check under the guise of looking for clues. 

The cabin is small enough that she can talk easily to him as he cooks. “So, this is the list of nearby buildings where he might have been taken,” she says pointing to a notepad, “And you’ve circled areas on this map where there are hazards in case he’s just fallen or trapped somewhere,” he hums from the kitchen, “and this…” she says waving her hand at the computer, “is your work on the roads... satellite images, traffic camera data, and heat signatures from the last forty-eight hours in case there’s something suspicious out there.”

“Yeah, some nerds at S.H.I.E.L.D. hooked me up.”

“But you haven’t analysed it?”

“I tried, but honestly, I don’t know suspicious from non-suspicious. At one point, I thought I had something, but turns out it’s just a truck stop. I mean, I guess if the son of bitches were smart, they’d use that, but it’s miles out, doesn’t make sense...”

“Hmmm,” Natasha says, mulling it over. “I might have a plan.”

“If your plan involves Stark, leave it,” Sam says, flipping some potatoes in a pan.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she smirks as she picks up her phone, “I know someone smart enough to rival him.” The call connects. “Dr Foster, it’s Agent Romanoff, I’m hoping you can help me with something.”

There’s a clatter on the other end of the phone. Natasha has called Jane twice before, and every time, Jane acts surprised that an Avenger has her in their phonebook. “Hi… oh my god, hi. How are you? Right, you need help. I can totally - “ there’s more clamour and Natasha imagines her running around her lab, mouthing at Darcy to fetch something, and tripping over experiments in her hurry. They’re on the East Coast at the minute, so it must be late, but she’s never know that to deter Jane Foster from working. “What can I do for you?”

“Say, hypothetically, you’d lost a super soldier in a national forest park,” she says and hears a snort from Sam in the kitchen, “and you had lots of information about activity in the local area but no way to find the irregularities…” 

“What sort of data?”

Natasha clicks pages after pages of intel, some of it live data, “Heat signatures might be the most useful. Is there a way of finding where people have been where they wouldn’t usually?”

“You think it’s a hostage situation?” Jane gasps, “I mean, er, _hypothetically_.” 

“Maybe. It’s hard to think why or how, but it’s an option. I’d normally just scout, but we’ve got a large area to cover and it’s been over twenty-four hours now. I’ve also got a lot of traffic information in case he’s been taken further afield but... ” 

“Oh!” Jane exclaims. “There is something I developed for analysing bacteria patterns, it’s not really my area, but we had some alien cells that were behaving unusually and so we set it up to take images of the growth every two minutes for twenty days and then I -”

There’s a cough in the background.

“And then, _Darcy_ ,” Jane rectifies, “pointed out it was far too much data to look through, so we developed a simple program that could tell us where the irregularities were occurring; where growth had stopped, where bacteria had travelled, and so on, you know?”

“Er,” Natasha says, barely keeping up with Jane’s technobabble, “Sure. You’re saying you could adjust this programme for heat signatures?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ll just have to change the parameters and - ” 

“Would it also pick up on a singular unmoving subject?”

“Should do.”

“Jane,” Natasha sighs in relief, “Thank you. How soon could you get this done?”

“Re-programming, not all that long, but depending on how much data you have, it could take hours to process, and then you have to factor in time for minor adjustments that might have to be made as we go.”

Natasha internally groans, but it’s still better than sifting through by hand. “Okay, Sam has a protected server here, I can send you over what we have, and it should be with you by the time you’ve finished a basic re-coding.”

They finish up, and Natasha allows herself a break to come and watch Sam cook. 

“That sounded hopeful,” Sam says. He’s sauteed the potatoes and is now boiling some veg and turning some steaks over. 

Natasha shrugs, stealing a potato from the pan. It’s hot enough to scald her fingertips but he’s fried them in spices and it tastes amazing. He glares at her playfully. 

“Hopefully it will turn something up. Meanwhile, we can go through that list of buildings and see if we can eliminate anything.” 

Sam puts down the spatula and turns to face Natasha. For a minute, she fears her research is coming to light; that Sam is going to say he can’t do it anymore, that he’ll want to stay out of this one, maybe stay out for good. He has failed and now he will self-destruct. But when he speaks, Natasha realises that she’s been reading his hunched shoulders all wrong; he’s not admitting defeat; he’s in denial. “Steve hasn’t been taken.”

“No? Then what’s your theory?” Natasha asks, because she really does what to hear this.

“He was upset about Peggy, so he’s gone soul searching or… whatever,” he shrugs and they both see his obvious lie.

“He wouldn’t do that to you. He knows how much you’d worry.”

“Fine, then he’s just fallen down a cliff, healed up, and is on his way back to us the long way round. Tasha, he’s practically invincible. A man like that doesn’t get kidnapped. And out here? Even the old Hydra base we were raiding was empty. Supervillians aren’t just gonna be out on a camping trip and stumble across him.”

“That’s what worries me,” Natasha admits. “What if they’ve been tracking you? What if they were just waiting for you to split up.”

“Who the hell is ‘they’?!” Sam exclaims. “Hydra’s got their hands full with S.H.I.E.L.D. Who else wants to take down Captain America?”

“Any number of people,” Barnes says, making a timely entrance. 

Sam flips the beef aggressively and Natasha watches his back tense. 

“There’s no sign of nearby activity, not that I can make out,” Barnes says, and casually sits atop the kitchen table between them. 

Natasha reaches underneath Sam’s arm and turns off the heat. “Whatever happened, Sam, it’s not your fault,” she says sincerely. 

“I should have been ready for something like this,” he says, back still to her. 

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “I should have been here,” Natasha says, and feels Sam relax minutely under her palm.

“It’s not your fault either,” Sam sighs, turning back towards her.

“Neither of you are to blame,” Barnes interrupts. “Steve’s just a schnook. Now, can we eat? That smells _amazing_.”

They laugh, and Natasha is grateful that Barnes chose this moment to show his unusual sense of humour, as it breaks the tension more effectively than she could have hoped. 

Dinner is amazing, and at any other time, she would be savouring it, but the empty space at the table places a pressure over all of them. They talk business for the whole meal, and Natasha catches Barnes up on the information they’ve found.

“Does this mean I’m coming?” he asks.

“No,” Natasha says, just as Sam had begun to say the opposite. “It means you’re our best tactical mind and we need your help planning… and maybe scout with us come dawn.”

Barnes shakes his head in disbelief. “Bullshit,” he sneers.

Sam looks at Natasha with a raised eyebrow. She’ll have to explain her reasons for keeping Barnes unarmed later, but now is not the time.

Despite his annoyance, Barnes helps plan with them for two more hours before he finally snaps. He’s studying a map for sniper positions when it happens and Natasha hears the telling crunch of paper. She looks up from the laptop and sees a corner of the map scrunched up in his metal hand. “I feel fucking useless,” he bites out. 

Before Natasha can argue, the map is falling from the desk and he’s walking out of the room. “I’m going to clean up,” he says without looking back, and she hears the tell-tell sign of the bathroom door locking.

“Okaaaaaaaaay,” Sam says, turning towards Natasha, “so something happened between you two.”

“More than something,” she mutters.

He raises an eyebrow and she realises she owes him many explanations, and she can at least give him one. “He’s not combat ready, and he knows it, or else he’d defy me.”

“So he’s more angry at the situation than at you?” Sam hazards. “Now that I understand.” 

Natasha picks up the map Bucky abandoned and straightens it out. There is a cliff nearby that Sam had circled and Barnes had also spotted as a possible sniper position. It’s within the search radius. “Did you check this out?” she asks.

Sam nods. “When I thought he was still just off walking, yeah, it’s a sudden drop, not signposted, but I didn’t see anything at the bottom.”

“No signs of struggle?”

“No…” Sam says, and she can feel the waves of guilt coming from him, “I didn’t look. Not in detail. It takes a good twenty minutes to circle down and I didn’t think… Should I have?”

Natasha shakes her head. “It’s probably nothing. But it’s close enough to that old church we thought was suspicious that it might be worth checking out if we’re no closer to an answer by morning.”

“Sure,” Sam says. “You okay to go through the rest of Jane’s data by yourself? I want to check out our weapons, find out how many working snipers we’ve got if -”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Natasha says.

She must lose track of time because the next time she looks up from the computer, the house is dark and quiet. Natasha is still cross-examining the results from Jane’s algorithm with satellite footage when Sam re-enters the room. 

A solid weight settles next to her on the couch and there’s the sound of a mug being placed on the table where she works. Herbal tea, not coffee. Sam is dropping hints that she ought to sleep soon, and he’s right, they should get moving at dawn, but first they need to work out where the hell they’re going.

She leans back into the comfort of the couch, and rubs her eyes. 

“Sorry it took a while. Two snipers by the way and some long-range binoculars. How’s it going?” he asks.

She makes a noncommittal noise and leans against his shoulder. “Nearly there. I think our best bet would be to head to that old church and be prepared for a hostage situation. Maybe you could start on a plan for that? Use the maps to work out our best approach, any elevation or well covered spots for those snipers, you know…”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, rubbing his hand over her back.

 _Fuck_ , she’s tired. It would be so tempting just to lean further into Sam and let sleep take them for a while, but Steve needs them to stay focused.

“Where’s Barnes?” she asks.

“Passed out in the bedroom, but -” Sam cranes his neck, scanning the living room, before turning back to her and dropping his voice, “there’s something you should know.” 

_No_ , she thinks. _No more drama. I just want to sleep._

“Bucky was taking a while cleaning up, so I went to check on him, and he was standing there in the bathroom, holding a razor.”

“Good,” she mumbles sleepily. “His scruff was getting out of hand.”

“No, I mean - “ Sam whispers, checking the living room again. He doesn’t see Barnes in the shadows. Of course he’s eavesdropping; a stranger is talking to his lover about him, she would do the same. “He’d taken the razor blade _out_ of the razor.”

That snaps Natasha out of her state. She straightens up to study Sam and forces herself not to let her eyes drift across to Barnes for more than a second. “Had he… done anything?”

Sam shakes his head. “He was just standing there, looking at his metal arm, and holding the blade in the other, but I _know_ that look, Tasha. He was thinking about it. Seriously thinking about it.” 

“Fuck,” she says, resting her head against the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling. “Did you talk to him?”

“I tried,” Sam says, “but I don’t think he trusts me yet, there wasn’t much I could do.” 

“Right,” she says, having solid evidence of Barnes’ mistrust in his eavesdropping. “So he didn’t say much?”

“No. But he didn’t deny my assumptions.”

Natasha turns to look at Sam again, encouraging him to continue, while praying he says nothing that could trigger Barnes. 

“I’ve seen this behaviour in vets before. When they come back, and they’re not who they were before. They see a monster in the mirror. In their mind, self-harm is a way of… exorcising that demon.”

Her eyes flicker over to the shadows where she knows Barnes is. “What can we do to help him?”

“We need to ease the dissonance. He’s no longer Steve’s childhood friend, and no longer a brainwashed assassin either. He needs to disassociate from both of those personas, and become who he is now, whoever that is. At least, that’s what I advised him, but I don’t know if he listened.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t know who he is now…” Natasha guesses, and if the shift in the shadows is any indication, she might be right. 

“Then we let him find out.”

Her eyes snap to Sam’s. “No.”

“Tasha - “

“He could hurt himself.”

Sam tilts his head, “I think he’s going to do a good job of that anyway. Let him on the field.”

Natasha bites her lip. “It’s too risky.”

“It’s already a mission full of unknowns, I’m asking for one more.”

Natasha closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to look at Barnes and read the disappointment in his stance. 

Sam places his hand on her thigh in a reassuring gesture. “I know you care about him, but you can’t keep him hidden away forever. We lead dangerous lives. Stark’s probably moving chess pieces as we speak, S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra… hell, half of the people that know Bucky’s alive, want him dead.”

She flinches. It’s true. But that fact seemed a whole lot more trivial before she got to know him. 

“He _is_ going to join the fight eventually, and his first shouldn’t be for his life, but to save someone he loves. C’mon, Tasha.”

Natasha exhales and nods, more for Barnes’ benefit than Sam’s. “I know you’re right, but I don’t have to like the idea. We could be walking into a trap for all we know.” 

“So we do more research. Make sure we know as much as we can before we risk it. Steve’ll be pissed as hell if one of us gets hurt trying to save his ass.”

Natasha chuckles. “That’s the spirit,” she says, patting him sarcastically on the cheek.

He knocks her hand away with a laugh, but doesn’t let it go, holding their hands suspended in mid-air. “Natasha,” he says, suddenly losing his humour. “I’m glad you’re here. Not just ‘cos if anyone can find a missing person, you can, but because…” his eyes implore her, “you left before we could work things out… but you _know_ , right? We’ve talked about it, Steve and me, and you’re part of us, and... Wow,” he laughs, breaking the eye contact, “this is even more awkward than I thought it would be. I just mean - “

She smiles at him, and moves their hands so she can turn his face towards her. “I know,” she says, saving him from his ramblings. Barnes is watching them like a hawk, but they had this conversation in the car, he’ll understand. “I know,” she repeats, and presses her lips against his in a promise, “When we get Steve back, we’ll talk. James too.”

Sam nods, though his eyes are still glazed from the kiss. “Okay.” 

“Barnes,” she calls, and it’s worth it for the way Sam jumps in her hands. Sam turns to look just as Barnes walks out of the shadows. Barnes at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “Can you help Sam with tactical?” 

“For the church?”

“Yeah, it seems most likely. I’m checking the rest of the options now, but the church makes sense, there’s three cars outside and about twelve people as of an hour ago.”

Barnes nods, but Sam is still staring at her in shock, he mouths, “He was listening the whole time?”

Natasha watches as Barnes digs through for a larger-scale map. She mouths back, “He trusts you now.” 

They turn back to their work, and as the plan comes together, they all become increasingly agitated. She hates waiting too, but they’re all far too exhausted to take on such an unknown mission now. She would send out a scout if it was any nearer, but it would be too far on too little energy. They will have to rely on the satellite imaging. 

It’s midnight when their plan comes together and Sam starts falling asleep on the couch. She places the blanket over him and drops a kiss on his forehead. He stirs slightly, burrowing further into the cushions. She sets an alarm on his phone and then rinses her empty mug in the kitchen. 

Barnes is still pouring over the maps. She watches for a minute before approaching and leaning over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispers in his ear.

He relaxes minutely, and whispers back, neither of them wanting to wake their sleeping friend, “Sam was right. I was just taking it out on you. I shouldn’t have done. I’m worried about what I might do too, you know.”

“I know,” she whispers, rubbing her hands down his side in comfort. “Do you want to talk about what else he said? About the razor?”

She can feel his intake of breath. “No,” he says.

“Okay.”

“But… I understand.”

“Okay,” she says, breathing in the smell at the nape of his neck. “I like your new hair,” she says, changing the topic. She runs her hands through the shorter, and somehow messier, mop of hair on his head. 

He turns around, smiling, “It’s not too shabby then?”

She tilts her head, pretending to study it, “No,” she says, and then strokes a finger across his clean-shaven chin, “I like this too.” 

She knows he did it in the hope that it would uncover the person that was Steve Roger’s childhood friend, but the difference in his stance alone is enough to indicate that this Barnes is not Bucky as Steve would have known him. The flirty way he smiles at her though gives her hope that he might be on the way to finding a new Barnes, because it’s not the recalled muscle memory that he used when they were dancing, but a smile that she’s never seen before, not even in the pictures at the Smithsonian; it’s a smile both marked with the pain of his past and hope for the future, and it’s beautiful. 

“I’m glad you think so,” he smirks, and he only has to glance down at her lips for her to get aboard the program. She kisses him, and feels something settle within her. 

The mission takes priority, so they do no more than kiss chastely, no matter how much she would like to take it further. When she turns off the living room light she sees Sam smiling in his “sleep” and knows her boys are now even on their eavesdropping. She curls up next to Barnes in the master bedroom, and closes her eyes with contingency plans running through her head, ready to be awoken in the morning. 

But she doesn’t sleep.

Of course she doesn’t sleep, because she so desperately needs to sleep.

Barnes is beside her, his face oddly calm and breathing regular, and it ought to relax her, but it doesn’t. She leaves the bed, and it’s a testament to her skill that the masterful assassin does not stir until the door creaks open. 

“I’m getting some water,” she reassures the shifting figure, “go back to sleep.”

He grunts and falls silent again. She closes the door behind her and pads down the hall. She doesn’t want to wake Sam, but maybe looking over their plan again will calm her. 

She turns the corner, to see Sam already there. Leaning over the desk with the maps in front of him, lit only by the dim desk light. 

He looks up when she enters. “You too, huh?”

“So it seems,” she says and walks towards him.

“I just keep asking myself,” he admits, pushing away from the desk, “that if someone has taken him - if they have the _power_ to take him - then what are they doing to him? And then, every time, I come to the same conclusion. We know what they’re doing. But here we are,” he says, gesturing around the living room, “playing house, while they’re sticking knives into him,” his voice is still a whisper, but his actions betray his anger; she watches a fist curl against his side. “We should - ”

“He’s been trained,” Natasha says, stepping closer. “He can take whatever they give him.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?!” 

“No,” she states because it sure as hell doesn’t make _her_ feel any better, “but we need to be rational. If we had gone in there without a plan, we would be outnumbered and outgunned, if we went in there now, we would be too exhausted to put up a decent fight. We know from their activity that the church is quietest during the day. But we still have too many unknowns to make an approach without careful planning. You need to be rested,” she says, reaching out and curling her fingers around his fist, prying them apart, “and not so on edge. We’ll get him back, Sam, but the best thing we can do right now is sleep, and…” her sentence falters as his thumb strokes against her palm. She watches their hands, mesmerised, as their fingers twist and curl and stroke… “And,” she tries again, “we need to stay focused.”

“Yeah,” he says distractedly, “I’m just…” his fingers have moved to press against her wrist, and then further up, the thumb trailing circles in their wake. She feels every touch shiver down her spine. They’re both so on edge they could fall either way. This is about Steve, and they both know it. But it’s also about release. Reassurance. She can justify this in her mind quite easily; the science behind it, the drugs that the body releases after sex to aid sleep, how much calmer he will be on tomorrow’s mission, how much she wants the closeness, but this is also something, that despite all their insinuations and unspoken promises, they should probably talk about first.

She leans into the touch, and when his hand reaches her shoulder, he looks into her eyes with a question.

A question she has always known the answer to.

She nods.

He gives the smallest of smiles and then hooks an arm around her waist and pulls her against him, tilting his mouth to kiss her insistently. 

It’s not as rushed and messy and desperate as Barnes, and she wouldn’t expect it to be, but there is something similar in the way he holds on as if she might disappear. He doesn’t tear at clothes, he tugs, as a question. His touch is gentle but confident. And he doesn’t stop kissing her. He kisses her like it’s the most important thing.

They fall down onto the couch and she straddles his lap, needing to feel that extra closeness of naked chest against chest, but not willing to break the kiss. She disposes of her cotton panties after his wordless coaxing, and then comes back to him. She is ready to free him from his jeans when his hand intercepts and instead begins pleasuring her, not entering at first, but not shy either. She sighs into the kiss, and rests her hands against his abs. She can feel his every movement like this even with her eyes closed. 

When she can’t stand it anymore, she adjusts her position slightly, and she doesn’t know whether she moans at the first feel of his fingers inside her, or how quickly he picked up her unspoken instruction, but fuck, people should write odes to Sam Wilson, and as he begins moving in earnest, she concedes that there should also be a whole damn book dedicated to his _fingers_. She gasps and grips the back of the sofa, needing something to ground her, while he derails her so utterly. He takes advantage of her breaking the kiss to mouth along her neck. When she’s recovered from the unexpected sensation, she looks at him and almost comes from the sight. He looks _wrecked_. As if this is undoing him too. 

She groans and pulls his face back to hers because she needs to taste that sincerity, and she feels it now, in every turn of the kiss. There’s an unconscious rocking of his clothed erection against her, and she knows he must be close too. It doesn’t take long until she’s clinging on to the back of his neck and he’s coaxing the climax out from her. She feels the build up and wants to scream with it, but he knows, and is swallowing her noises with a kiss. One deft movement later, and she falls completely. He stays with her through the aftershocks and leaves kisses on her temple, neck, breast, as she regains herself. 

She opens her eyes to see him finally free himself from his jeans. She groans at the sight but he doesn’t ask for anything; he never does. She reaches for him, but doesn’t have a chance to help, as in two strokes, he is done for. His head falls onto her shoulder and she guides him through it with a soft hand on the back of his head, and gentle kisses to his shoulder. 

When he has calmed, he turns his head to press his lips against hers. Her heart clenches painfully in her chest. _Home is where the hurt is._ She chases the thought out of her mind and takes care of him, cleaning up and sleepily burrowing under the blanket with him. It’s a tight fit on the couch but she’s suddenly bone tired and there’s a certain comfort about sleeping with someone’s arms around you and a steady heartbeat in your ear. 

Her body clock tells her it’s not even an hour later when Sam stirs beneath her. 

“Lemme up,” he croaks.

“No,” she mutters, trying to claw her way back to the dream she was having.

“Tasha,” he says softly, and she hears the worry in his voice, a minute before she hears the reason why he woke.

A distant tortured scream. Barnes is having a nightmare. A bad one.

“James,” she whispers, and the fear makes her breath catch on his name.

“I know, I’ll go,” Sam says, prising himself away from the couch, “Sleep.”

Her worry eases, instinctively, because Sam will help, and help better than she would be able to. _Good as gold_ , Barnes had said, and he wasn’t wrong. “Okay,” she says, and her eyes drift close again as he leaves the room, and her sleep comes when the distant sounds of distress fade. 


	7. Take Me To Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio find Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admit it, you would have used Hozier as a chapter title too. It's just too damn perfect. 
> 
> Oh! And all the bad guys, including Yana, are original characters.

Natasha wakes alone on the couch to the sound of the alarm on Sam’s phone. She hears another ring in tandem in the bedroom, and two voices react; Sam must have stayed with Barnes last night. She stretches with a small smile, she feels refreshed, and ready to do whatever it takes to get Steve back.

Barnes sorts their gear while Sam busies himself with making coffee and toast. Natasha’s occupied working on a contingency plan. She steps outside onto the porch and treads across the frosty wood panels in bare feet, shivering in the cold dawn air. 

“Oh good,” Isaiah says on a yawn when Natasha calls him, “you’re still alive.” 

Apparently he’s awake enough to have attitude.

“Good morning to you too, Isaiah.” 

“Can’t blame me for worrying, and I have I mentioned recently how little your disappearing act pays? Little being literally nothing, by the way.”

“If I didn’t do it once in awhile, you’d only complain that I wasn’t actually using the safehouses that we’re paying for.”

“Perhaps,” Isaiah says, grudgingly, “but the next time you fancy doing some work that actually pays, I do have a couple of opportunities - “

“Maybe when I’m back.”

“Oh, coming back are you? So nice of you to tell me…”

She smirks, she missed Isaiah. “Yes, and hopefully with a couple of presents. But, look,” she says, before he can press further into exactly who she has with her, “I’m about to do something risky.”

“Stupid,” Isaiah corrects. “I can assure you, the word you’re looking for is ‘stupid’”.

She looks through the window at Barnes examining a grenade. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”

Isaiah sighs. “Usual extraction plan then?”

“Please. Make sure that Kate is in on it. Maria if you need the resources. Not Clint just yet; he’d only worry, but make sure he’s available in case we need a Plan B. And say nothing to Tony, even if he asks, alright?” 

“Certainly.” Another reason she likes Isaiah; he doesn’t pry. “Location?” he asks.

She gives it to him and then says, “Get it ready. If you don’t hear from me in 24 hours, call it in.”

“Got it,” he confirms. 

“By the way, it’s not literally nothing.”

“What?”

“I made a few investments while I was on the West Coast. One of them paid off substantially. The cheque should be coming to your office today, if not, I sent a letter with details of the appropriate buttons you’ll need to press.”

“I…” he trails off. “Do I want to know?”

The fact is, once Barnes had finished using the dealer’s house as a rendezvous point, there was no advantage in keeping the dealer a secret, not when the ransom price for him was so high from the authorities. By that point she wasn’t even in San Francisco, but she orchestrated it, gave them the intel they needed, and her cut was a good one. Matt had been wanting to close this case for a while, so it also meant he was back in her a favour, as it always should be. She doesn’t tell Isaiah about the drug cartel though, instead she says, “Nothing to worry about.”

“You know I don’t find that very comforting.” 

“Good. Stay out of trouble. Hopefully you’ll hear from me in a few hours.”

“Same to you.”

She walks back into the cabin to two incredulous looks. “What?” she asks.

Sam gets there first, pressing the mug of coffee into her hands and the difference in temperature nearly scalds her, “When you’re making back-up plans for the back-up plans, I start to worry.”

“It’s just precaution,” she says, “it’s probably a small Hydra faction taking advantage of an opportunity.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced but Barnes interrupts before he has time to argue, “Also, it’s freezing out there. And this is coming from the Winter Soldier, I know about freezing.”

The corner of her mouth lilts in amusement. The more Barnes jokes, especially about his past personas, the more she feels he is finding himself. “I’m fine.”

Barnes huffs. “Maybe so, but next time, it wouldn’t kill you to wear some shoes.”

“He’s not wrong,” Sam shouts back as he leaves the room to change.

They’re out of the house within half an hour and armed for every possible situation that Natasha could predict. Natasha ties her hair in a ponytail and covers it with a black woolen hat, hiding her red hair, and she has at least twenty weapons on her person. Sam has a new set of wings, and Barnes looks positively deadly. 

“We’re so badass,” Sam says with a cheeky grin, admiring the top-grade sniper in his hands.

“And sexy,” Barnes says with an overly confident wink. Another recalled expression.

She rolls her eyes at their behaviour, but can’t find it in herself to disagree. 

They don’t head straight towards the church, instead walking until they reach the cliff that Sam had been worried about, a mile or so to the east of the abandoned church. It’s a long way down. The edge of a lake is directly below them; sandy, but with rocky outcrops. She can see how this raised a flag in Sam’s mind; the dusty track they were following from the cabin leads straight off this cliff, and in a landscape of green, she can see how if Steve was distracted he could have mistaken the distant trees on the other side of the lake for continuous land. 

They hunker down among the bushes. She raises the binoculars to her eyes and peers down at the bottom of the cliff. She recognises her vertigo and dismisses it. The sand and rocks look… unusual. She turns the binoculars further down shore and it confirms her suspicions. 

She passes the binoculars along to Barnes who is pressed against her right side. “Does that ground look disturbed to you?” she asks as he raises the binoculars. 

His sharp intake of breath is telling enough, but then he adds, “They tried to cover the blood with sand.”

“Blood?” Sam squeaks on the other side of her. 

“And then…” Barnes says, the binoculars moving westwards, “Those marks. Footprints but also… something dragged…” 

Natasha spots it just as Barnes does. The track on the west side of the lake that leads to a few wooden fishing shacks and beyond. A track wide enough for a car. She would bet her favorite gun that those huts were occupied when Steve fell, and that the track leads to the church where so many cars have gathered.

“That road wasn’t on the map,” Sam muses.

“It wouldn’t be,” Natasha says, “Private fishing retreat. It’s not an offical road. And Jane’s algorithm wouldn’t have picked up on a car here as being unusual, or an unmoving body for that matter, if this place is actually used for fishing.”

“But this means it’s what we thought, right?” Sam asks. “Steve’s probably been taken hostage and held in the church to the west of here?”

“Yes,” she says distractedly, “but I also do not believe in coincidences.” 

“I agree,” Barnes says, returning the binoculars to her. “It’s suspicious. They must have been following you.”

“But why here?” Sam asks, pointing down towards the fishing huts. “The first rule of observation is: don’t pick a valley. They can’t even see our cabin from here. It doesn’t make any tactical sense.”

“The cabin was the nearest safehouse to a old Hydra base you searched?” Barnes asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “but it was miles away from here, an hour’s drive at least.” 

Natasha catches onto Barnes’ logic. “And you definitely weren’t followed from there?”

“Unless they’ve invented invisible cars, no. Single track country road, nobody for miles.”

She has a bad feeling. A really bad one. The one you get halfway through a mission when you realise you’ve missed something and now you’re out in the middle of the ocean with no liferaft. She’s missed something. She stills. Examines the scenery. The men fall silent beside her. The huts. What are in the huts? She raises the binoculars. Most of them are too far away to make much out, but she doesn’t need detail, she needs… nothing. There’s nothing. Maybe she’s being paranoid. Maybe it it’s just a coincidence that Sam and Steve were within a mile of a camp of some Very Suspicious and probably Very Bad Men. There’s nothing to prove her wrong. And there’s no one here now to question. The church is still their best bet.

“Come on,” she says, getting up and leading them along the cliff. They don’t ask questions, even though she knows they want to. 

The trees become thicker as the cliff slopes gradually down to meet the valley. They reach the area Barnes marked for the snipers. It’s a few feet above the church, with enough trees to obscure them from any curious eyes. They get into position again, lying down behind a log. Natasha peeks over with the binoculars. 

This time, her bad feeling is justified. She swears under her breath. 

Sam tries to get up beside her but she pushes him down and retreats to the ground with them. 

“What is it?” he asks.

“You know how we thought there were three cars?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not three cars,” she says. “It’s two cars and a van.”

Sam’s forehead creases in confusion. “So?”

“A satellite van.”

Barnes curses in Russian, and she can only agree with him. “They haven’t been following you, Sam, they’ve been _tracking_ you. At least one of our secure lines is no longer secure.”

“Damn,” Sam whispers in shock, letting his head fall back against the log. 

She can see the logic running through Barnes’ mind as he speaks, “They must have tracked the signal to this area and waiting for more data when Steve ran straight into them. They may not have been planning to take him but once their position was compromised, they’d have no other choice. Instead of killing him, they thought to torture him for the information that they were sent to gather in the first place. Makes sense.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Wait,” Sam says. “If they were tracking us but not wanting us, then what _did_ they want?” 

Natasha exchanges a worried look with Barnes. “Us,” she says, at the same time he says, “me.” She gives him a half-shrug; he’s probably right. 

“Okay,” Sam interjects. “So they - whoever “they” are - were just after information on the Winter Soldier?” 

“Information that they’re now torturing Steve for,” Barnes says with a grimace. 

“It’s not your fault,” Natasha reassures him. “It’s their fault for thinking you’re a weapon that can be bought and sold for.” She bristles at the thought. “And they’ve been working from incorrect intel if they believed you to be vulnerable.”

She returns to her position before they can question her, using the optic on the sniper to analyse the scene. The others join her; Sam with the other sniper, Barnes with the binoculars. 

“Two guards patrolling the perimeter,” Sam mutters.

“James - anything through the windows?” Natasha asks.

“Several downstairs I think but…” Barnes murmurs. “There’s also movement at the top… someone on a phone...”

Natasha tracks his description to the top of the ruins, there must be enough of a platform left to support whoever it is, but they’re obscured by the remains of the wall.... “Wait,” Natasha says, her hand shaking slightly at the realisation, “I know that woman. She’s the daughter of a Red Room investor and black market operator. I killed her father in front of her,” she admits. “Accidentally. I didn’t realise until after but… that’s her. That’s Yana.”

“Why would she be interested in the Winter Soldier?” Barnes asks.

If it were any other time, Natasha knows Sam would be holding a parade for the fact that Barnes just referenced the Winter Soldier as a separate identity, but, not now. Now they both look to her for answers.

“A tool for revenge, perhaps. But it doesn’t seem like her. She was just a kid when I knew her, but she was a master manipulator, she doesn’t need a weapon as long as she has people in her debt.”

“So they’re not Hydra?” Sam interrupts.

“No,” Barnes agrees. “Russian. At least most of them, I’d say. I’d recognise those weapons anywhere.”

Natasha takes a deep breath and then lowers her sniper to examine the bottom floor. “But you don’t recognise of their faces?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “Apart from one of the guards. Ten o’clock. Bald. I’ve encountered him before. He wasn’t the mission though, just the hired muscle.” 

“These guys need better jobs,” Sam mutters. 

She waits for some more heads to turn their way, and then it confirms her suspicions. She must give herself away because Barnes is looking across at her in concern. 

“You know some of the others, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yes. The two on the bottom floor to the left are brothers. I put an end to their smuggling trade. I thought them dead in the explosion, but… apparently I was not that lucky. I should have checked. And I should have spoken to Yana.”

Another face is revealed, but she already knows the pattern. She knows the names of every mistake she has made. And today will surely be counted as another one.

She puts down the sniper, afraid to have her finger near the trigger. “Everyone in that building wants me dead,” she says with gravity. “It’s not you they were looking for, James. It was me…“ she shakes her head as the pieces slot together. She should count herself lucky that this time it isn’t Isaiah caught in the crossfire, but ultimately he’s safe because he wasn’t the one she’d been calling from payphones every chance she got. It was Sam. It was Steve. “It’s my fault. I should never have made contact. I put you all in danger. I should have stayed away, then Steve wouldn’t be - “

There’s a hand on her wrist. She looks up to see Barnes. “If it wasn’t my fault, then it isn’t your fault.”

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t your fault because you did not control the things that you did, they would be after a weapon, not a person; and you are not the Winter Soldier, but I am -” she tries again, “I am Black Widow. These people… _I did this_. Down there, those are my mistakes. It used to be that the only person that got hurt when I screwed up was me, but, now - I’ve dragged you all into my mess. I am… sorry.”

“Has it crossed your mind that maybe we don’t mind being in your mess?” Sam asks. “We’re always dragging you into ours… fair is fair.”

“I should’ve killed these people when I had the chance,” she mutters, ignoring Sam’s sentiment for the time being.

“All of them?” Barnes asks. 

He’s re-learning. As much she needs vengeance, she also refuses to steer Barnes wrong. 

“Not the guards. You’re right, they’re just here for the money. Knock them out. But the others are already on borrowed time.”

Barnes nods. She looks to Sam who has been watching the church through the optic. 

“Yana’s moved back down,” he says, “but look at the back wall, very left corner, in the shadows.”

She sees the outline of Steve Rogers and her guilt intensifies. Academically, she knew that torturing someone with advanced healing would be brutal, but the evidence is still hard to stomach. It’s too dark to make out more than a rough shape, but the fact is, that the crumpled figure was so unlike Steve Rogers, that they didn’t even register it at first. He is hung from a metal chain on each arm, hooked up into the ruins of the church, and he seems to be collapsed in on himself.

“What is that?” Sam asks, “Sticking out from that corner in our direction? Like a beam, or a stick or - ”

“A spear,” Barnes mutters. “The bastards have stuck a damn fishing spear in him.”

“To stop him from healing…” Natasha whispers, and her eyes sting with it. _What has she done?_

Sam takes over the tactical while they lie down hidden by the fallen tree. She manages to listen to his orders over the white noise because she knows it’s important but it’s difficult to stay focused when the past is eating away at her. 

She comes back to herself when the sniper is taken out of her hands by Sam, “It will slow you down,” he says. Right. Her and Barnes are climbing down to ground level, once they’re close enough, they take out the guards with the dart gun which is Sam’s signal to start shooting and when he no longer has any clean shots, he’ll fly down so they can pick off the remaining captors together. The plan. She doesn’t need a sniper. She lets him take it and he puts it into the bag next to him that he’ll kick under a bush before he leaves. He passes her the dart guns instead. 

“Do you need anything else?” Sam asks, and when she doesn’t answer he adds, “Buck?”

“No, I’m fine,” Barnes says, checking his spare ammo.

“Okay,” Sam nods to him. “Be safe, both of you.”

Natasha moves to leave but Sam catches her by the arm and lowers his voice, “Don’t let the guilt eat at you, Tasha. We’ll talk about this. But your mission hasn’t changed.”

She knows this. The problem is, that she’s having difficulty compartmentalising it. Her missions are always just that; missions, always impersonal or taken as part of her justice. But whatever Yana and her men had planned by trying to find her and kill her, by taking Steve - by sticking a damn spear in him like a skewer - _makes it personal_. She is accustomed to severing emotions during missions but not like this. The guilt _does_ eat at her. It’s eating her stomach inside out. 

She holds Sam’s gaze and pushes it aside, pushes and pushes, until she turns back to find that her view of the church is clear again, marked tactically with exits and lines of sight and enemy positions, not with the red and unreliable haze of emotion. 

“Thank you,” she whispers to Sam.

He smiles encouragingly at her. She squeezes his shoulder in thanks as she rises, and together, her and Barnes make their way to the church. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The ot4 are actually in the same room! Together!!! 
> 
> I know, right? It's been 20,000 words and you're thinking "about damn time". Don't worry, I'll give you your fluff to make it worth your time. ;-)


	8. Not Your Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go to plan. Of course they don't.

Of course, it was going to go wrong, because things had been going far too well. She ought to have learnt by now to trust her instincts above all else. She ought to have _known_.

Her and Barnes are in the bushes, aiming the tranquilizer guns at the guards, when something in Barnes snaps. She knows it as soon as his finger touches the trigger and his shoulders straighten ever so slightly in response. His dart meets its target, but then, moments afterwards, he moves to attack, not the enemy, but _her_. 

She is ready for him, but he is ruthless. He pushes her to the ground and knocks her gun out of her grip. 

Distantly, she hears the sound of falling guards from their darts. They only have seconds before the rest of the men are upon them. She can already hear their shouts of surprise and their clamoring for weapons. She only hopes Sam can hold them off from his position on the cliff.

She twists her thighs in a tight hold around Barnes’ neck, and it distracts him enough that she can pull a knife from her belt. But somehow he has a knife to her throat too. 

They still. Both a finger twitch from death. 

She looks into his eyes and sees no recognition at all. She hears a sniper in the distance, but Sam won’t have a clear shot of all of the men, he won’t be able to hold them off forever. Her and Barnes are meant to be there, picking off the men he can’t. But here she is, caught off guard, lying on her back with a knife to her throat and a deadly assassin above her. 

“Stand down,” she tries.

Nothing.

“James,” she urges. 

A flicker in his eyes.

She hears the men approach. Two thuds signal a hit from Sam. There’s still three men out there, and Yana, to take care of. 

“James, I am not your enemy.” 

She feels his muscles shift in his gut from where her empty hand was trying to leverage him away from her. She dares to loosen her grip. She feels his knife dig into her throat, untrusting. She feels blood start to trickle. Speaking now would be a risk. But she moves her hand steadily from his gut to his waist, the place where he held her while dancing, the place where she held on to him when they moved desperately together on the floor of a safehouse, and she begs with her eyes: _you know me. come back to me. don’t leave me. YOU KNOW ME._

It clears not like a storm, but like the turning of a page. His knife falls to the ground. His head snaps up at the sound of gunfire. He jumps back, away from her, and looks to her for orders, somehow looking more lost than the man she had first met in the alleyway. He needs to be told.

“Go to the cabin and wait,” she orders.

He nods. He is shaking. But he still manages to run out of sight.

She hears the sound of metal wings and looks up just as one of the brothers comes across her. She trips him over, flips to her feet, and buries a bullet in his brain. She will make no more mistakes today. 

They take out the last two men and then Sam runs towards her, guilt lining the furrows of his forehead. He was the one that insisted Barnes was battle ready. She is tempted to throw his words back at him: _Don’t let the guilt eat at you... We’ll talk about this... But your mission hasn’t changed..._

“I’m fine,” she says, forestalling him. His eyes linger on her bleeding throat. It’s a superficial cut. Not as deep as it probably appears to him. “Just sorry you were left on your own.”

“Barnes?” he asks, and she can tell it’s a question he doesn’t really want the answer to.

“Disengaged. Gone. Hopefully to the cabin.”

He nods.

Natasha looks towards the ruins of the church, she can see movement in the corner where Steve is hung. Natasha knows exactly what Yana will do: as content as she is to let others die for her, she will try to use Steve Rogers to bargain for her own life. Natasha won’t give her the chance. 

“Yana’s still inside,” she says. “Let’s go.”

They use the walls as protection as they inch closer towards Steve and Yana, communicating with hand signals and inclines of the head to form a battle plan. It’s easy to work with Sam; he’s a man who only follows orders when he respects the wisdom behind them, which is a way of saying, she knows he will stand his ground if she is ever wrong. Sam also uses his initiative with often very good results. His moral compass is something she is beginning to rely on, which is the main reason why she let him have the last word about Barnes. 

“Of course you came crawling,” Yana shouts in their direction in Russian. Sam looks to her for a translation but she shakes her head at him. “I knew you would,” she continues, “that is what happens when you trap something in a spider’s web.”

Natasha stands up. If Yana wants to be chatty, she’ll be chatty. “That’s a false analogy,” she replies back, in Russian still, because Sam doesn’t need to hear this meaningless taunting. “If anyone’s trapped, it’s you.” 

She strides towards Yana, taking stock of the situation as she goes. Yana is young, tall, and thin, with a pinched face much like her fathers, and wears a long coat that only adds to her dramatic personality. She’s playing a role. 

Yana stands next to Steve, spinning another fishing spear casually in one hand, with a gun holstered on her hip. Steve sways slightly, but his head is bowed. One leg is crumpled and swollen just below the knee; they must have shattered the bone and let it heal incorrectly. The spear sticks into his gut. That will not be an easy heal either when that is removed. His clothes are torn and his body is covered in crusted blood. Some bruises are still visible. Something uncomfortable twists in Natasha’s stomach at the sight. 

“I suppose,” Yana says, “the right thing to do would be to kill your lover like you killed my father. In cold blood. In front of you. But then, that is also not a correct analogy. You are not innocent.”

“Neither were you,” Natasha says, this time in English, and she feels her steel resolve to kill her begin to break down, “you had done wrong, but only at your father’s hand, and you were young, I had hoped you might do good out from under his shadow. I clearly made a mistake.”

Yana’s face twitches. “I seek only revenge.”

Yana’s reaction confirms it for her. Natasha was going to kill this woman. She was going to put a bullet in her brain before they could even have this conversation. But she owes Yana this conversation, this opportunity for redemption, and she at least has to offer it. From the way Yana holds the spear, Natasha knows she did not throw the first one. It’s likely Yana had no part in the torture; she is the director, not the hand. Yana doesn’t get her hands dirty. 

“But you want to live more,” Natasha surmises. “You have yet to do anything irreversible, but hurt that man any further, and I will not let you leave here alive.” 

Yana’s hand shakes minutely, but it’s enough that Natasha can smell the blood in the water. 

“Stop trying to be your father’s daughter, and you can go.” 

Yana attempts to mask her confusion, but her acting isn’t as good as she thinks it is. Natasha feels Sam prickle behind her; he doesn’t like this arrangement. He wants vengeance. But Natasha has been this person, and so has Barnes; following a distorted sense of duty, of purpose, of _anger_ , and if they deserve a second chance, then so does Yana. 

“He is still controlling you from his grave. Do you want that?” 

Natasha realises her mistake a split-second before Yana raises her gun. This day is not going well. 

“He does not control me,” Yana says. “I want the power. I take it.”

“You can do better than this.”

Natasha hears Sam’s intake of breath. He’s nervous. Maybe he doesn’t see the signs as to how close Yana is to breaking. Natasha need only present her with a greater opportunity, and she will have been bought. 

“I caught a super soldier,” Yana boasts. 

“You got lucky.”

Sam makes a noise like a choked off gasp. Natasha chooses to be amused by Sam’s reaction to her taunting an angry woman with a gun. This is an average Tuesday for Natasha.

“What you did,” Natasha says, “was get thugs, dealers and assassins from different factions to work together by using a unifying goal. That takes a special kind of person, to manipulate and motivate people like that. Were you even paying them?”

Yana lowers her gun, and this is the answer Natasha was looking for. 

“Right,” Natasha says, “so you got a vast array of difficult people to work together, for free, on an extremely risky project, just because they have the same goal. You can do better than this,” she reiterates. 

Natasha wonders just how many people realise that their very eye movements give them away. Yana’s accessing memory. She’s thought about this before. She has a get-out plan, a fantasy maybe, but it’s enough to work with. Politics? Business? Most likely, one of those. She’s already demonstrated an interest in money and power above all else, and although this kind of life certainly gives you both of those, it doesn’t give you them for long. Yana still has her whole life ahead of her. If she got out now, she could make the change. And she knows it. 

“You’ll let me leave?” Yana asks.

“Yes, if you leave his shadow; if you atone.”

She drops the spear and places down the gun, coming up slowly with raised hands. 

“But just so you know,” Natasha says, “If I find you up to your old tricks, I _will_ find you, and it will not be pleasant. Understood?” 

Yana nods.

“Oh, and if anyone has a problem with me, they come after _me_ , not my friends. You might want to spread the word.”

Yana nods.

It pleases Natasha greatly that she’s got someone unarmed, convinced, and scared of her, all in less than five minutes. Yana’s still frozen in place.

“ _Go_ ,” Natasha orders. 

Yana scuttles away like the scared little child that Natasha has exposed. Sam escorts Yana out of the building without prompting, probably checking the car for weapons and memorising the license plate as he goes. Natasha waits for the sound of a car to start up and prays that this has not been another mistake. 

Sam’s returning footsteps break her from her thoughts and a firm hand squeezes her shoulder. Agreement. Comfort. Solidarity. She gives him a thankful smile and then, finally, turns towards Steve.

She approaches slowly. It’s been months since she’s seen him and her heart aches with it. His body is covered in dried blood and fading bruises and she wonders if they ever got tired of cutting him open to see him heal. She walks around the spear and cups his chin in her hands, lifting up his face into the light. Both his eyes are swollen, his cheek looks like it sustained damaged, and his lip is split but healing before her eyes. His eyes blink open with confusion. 

“Natasha?” he asks with a cracked voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving your ass, of course,” she replies. 

She smiles and, slowly, he smiles back, the light beginning to return to his eyes. She wants to kiss him, she wants to hold him close and never let him go, she wants to cry until her eyes are dry, and leave, leave so she never has to see this sight again. She strokes down the side of his face gently, dismayed at the blood that flakes with it, “Did they drug you?” 

He shakes his head. “Not since they took me, I think… just… tired. I’ll be fine,” he says, trying to get his feet underneath him again. Ever the soldier - no, she corrects herself - ever Steve Rogers. The man that always gets up again. “You’re hurt,” he says, gesturing the best he can at her throat.

Her instinct is to raise her hand, to cover it, but the damage has been done. She exchanges a quick look with Sam. They need to tell him that Barnes is back, but now is the wrong time for that conversation. 

“I’m fine,” she brushes off. “I have to ask you something, and then Sam will cut you down and we can go somewhere safe, okay?”

“Sam?” he asks, his eyes bright. His eyes search until they land on Sam over her shoulder.

“Hey buddy,” Sam says kindly.

“Hey,” Steve smiles.

It’s sickenly cute and Natasha curses the flutter of her heart at the sight. She turns back to Steve. “I need to know what they asked you about.” If she made a mistake in keeping Yana alive, she needs to know now, while she’s still within tracking distance.

“Just your location.” 

“You’re a crappy liar, Rogers.”

He laughs and it’s both music and torture. How could she get such a good man so wrecked? “The woman said some things,” he swallows. “Said I couldn’t trust you, that you had files on us, were planning to destroy us, she tried to convince me… but I didn’t believe a word of it, not even for a moment. Didn’t tell her anything. Never would.” 

Natasha is floored. She does not deserve this man’s unending loyalty. 

She closes her eyes. She knows what Yana has on her because it was actually a physical object when they first met. She’s working from old intel but it’s not, technically, incorrect. It’s what Natasha has so she can sleep at night; data on how to take down every single Avenger. She used to keep it on a chip but no matter where she hid it, it would never be safe, and so it’s locked away in her mind. She can justify it this way because then it is only ever a contingency plan. Surely everyone has considered how they would topple the giants, and if it stays in her mind, then it is always only that; an idea, not a weapon ready to be used. At least as far as anyone else is concerned. “I would never use the information I have.”

“I know,” Steve says sincerely. “You don’t sell out your friends.” He looks around the church and doesn’t seem to find what he was looking for. “So did I miss the ass kicking?”

Sam snorts. “No, you missed a very disturbing heart-to-heart and some ill-advised career advice.”

“Hey,” Natasha says, mock-offended, “I threatened her too.”

Their bickering at least makes light of the situation and brings a smile to Steve’s face. She’s still stroking his face, but it goes unnoticed until he leans into the palm, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin. It ignites every nerve ending until she feels like every cell, every follicle, is aware of him. It’s the kind of gentle touch she could pretend to not have noticed and the kind he could pretend was accidental. For once, she doesn’t how to play this, probably because this time it’s not a game. 

Her mind is still racing, playing out the scenarios that could lead from here, when he says, “Thank you for coming.” 

It makes her heart clench because she hears what he’s _not_ saying; he’s not thanking her for finding him, or saving him, he’s thanking her for coming _back_. Every time he sees her, there’s a part of him that thinks it’s the last time. There’s a part of her that thinks that too. It doesn’t bode well to stay in one place for too long. 

“You’re welcome,” she whispers, because she can’t promise him anything else. 

She turns away before she lets herself become too entangled. 

She leaves Sam to pull out the spear and destroy the binds that tie Steve to the church, while she investigates the satellite van outside. She needs some space, and she figures they need privacy for a reunion. She sees them share a gentle kiss before she leaves the ruins, and it cuts her deep to see such casual intimacy. She didn’t comfort him. He touched her and she practically ran away. The first thing she did wasn’t to comfort him, but to ask for information (to protect them all). Did he want comforting? Would she have been able to give it? Did she _want_ to? She’s always been good at complications but this is something else entirely. 

Natasha destroys the equipment in the van in case it holds any data, but it doesn’t look like they were doing anything more complex than tracking (Steve’s cell phone, from the looks of it). She hears a yell from the church and winces at the sound, but at least now the spear is out, Steve can heal. His leg that healed incorrectly will be more problematic. She’ll operate as soon as they’re safe. And then she’ll evaluate the rest of their problems. 

By the time she’s hotwired the remaining car and loaded it with their weapons, Sam and Steve are staggering out of the church. She runs to meet them, and supports Steve from the other side, and together they walk towards the car. He grimaces with every step. Blood is still pouring from the hole in his gut, but it must have started to heal because it isn’t gushing like a deep wound should. They get the car door is open and encourage him to lie down on the back seat, placing pressure on the wound. 

When the car is rumbling beneath them, Natasha finally lets her shoulders relax. The journey to the cabin by car takes about as long as it would to walk, due to the unkempt and windy country roads but she needs the time to process. Steve is safe. Sam is beside her. Barnes is, hopefully, waiting, safe and disengaged, at home. 

And then she catches herself: _Home_. 

She is beginning to use the word too casually in relation to these men. 

Sam sighs. She knows he must be feeling guilty - for not searching hard enough for Steve, for sending Barnes to the field when he ended up hurting her, no doubt a thousand other small things - he considers himself the caregiver, and he finds it hard when people get hurt on his watch. She can rely on him to keep his worries hidden until they’re somewhere safe though. It’s the Eighth grade math test all over again. If he fails, he’ll keep barrelling through until it doesn’t feel like a lie anymore to say he’s okay. 

“What’s the plan?” Sam asks instead.

“I want to get out of here. Someone is going to notice they’re missing soon, or find the bodies before S.H.I.E.L.D. can send a clean-up team.... We’ll get back on the I-90 and start heading east. We can switch cars in Missoula if not before, and there’s an old S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse we should be able to use there.”

“Not one of yours?” Steve asks. “Thought you had one in every state.”

There’s a slight bitterness to his voice and she doesn’t blame him. Steve would never say it out loud, but Sam has previously made their opinion on her disappearing act very clear. 

“My nearest is about eleven hours from here,” she says, “in the wrong direction, and we need to operate on your leg as soon as possible before the bones become further embedded in your tissue.” 

Steve cringes. To be fair, she’s not looking forward to it either. 

“What did they use to do that anyway?” Natasha asks.

Sam starts to protest, but Steve talks over him, “Sledgehammer,” he says casually.

“Urgh,” Sam says. “Remind me, why didn’t we kill her?”

Natasha bites her lip. Usually, in her books, the person that gave the order is even more guilty than the person that committed the act, but in this case, it’s likely Yana hadn’t anticipated the torture, nor how much her men would enjoy it. She can’t justify Sam’s question so instead she asks one of her own, “Was it the man with the glasses that gave the order? And one of the brothers that acted on it?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “How’d you know?”

She shrugs. “The one with the glasses, Bragin, would think outside the box but would not have the strength to wield it, whereas both the brothers are brutes. Bragin was a master torturer - “

Sam splutters again. “I’m sorry, when were you going to mention this?”

“He was one of the men hidden in the building, Sam, I didn’t know he was there until you shot him.” 

“Great,” he bites, “any more misery you want to add to this situation?”

“Easy, Sam,” Steve says. “She’s just - ”

“I know!” Sam shouts, letting his head thump against the headrest. “I know,” he repeats, softer, “I’m just...restless. What Yana did to Steve shouldn’t go unpunished.”

“It won’t,” Natasha says, “atoning for her sins and making a new life for herself will be harder than any slow death could be.” 

“You’re sure she will do it?”

Natasha clenches her jaw, her lips settling in a thin line. Is she ever sure of anything? No. But she can read people. “Yes,” she says.

“Okay,” Sam says. Like that’s it. Like that’s all he needed to hear.

For the second time that morning, she asks herself what the hell she’s done to deserve such trust. 

“How are you feeling Steve?” Sam calls over his shoulder into the backseat. 

“Just peachy.”

“Great,” Sam says. “So now I can kill you for falling off a cliff, right?” 


	9. Some Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They deal with the fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's baaaaaaaaaaaaaack!!! (But is Bucky?)

Somehow they make it back to the cabin without telling Steve about Barnes. Part of Natasha thinks it might be because she doesn’t trust Barnes to be there. That she’ll open the door, and even after all their progress, after all they’ve shared, he’ll be gone. The idea hurts her more than she will admit to. There’s also a part of her that warns that he _will_ be there, but it won’t be James behind that door, but the Winter Soldier in his stead. 

As they lead Steve towards the door, Natasha tightens the grip on her gun, and prepares for danger, but if anything, the cabin is too quiet. 

_He’s not here_ , she thinks, and prepares herself for the disappointment. 

It’s mad. The man cut her throat. She should be relieved if he’s not here. But that wasn’t the same man. She is more concerned that the man she cares for is out there, lost somewhere, and in need of help. 

She takes a deep breath, and opens the door. 

It creaks open, and there, on the sofa is Barnes. 

Before relief can take its hold, she sees his rigid posture, sees the scratch marks on his arm, and feels Steve freeze in shock beside her. 

Barnes jumps up from the couch to face them, guilt written all over his face. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks hopefully. 

Barnes looks a second away from a breakdown. His breathing is fast, uneven, he is sweating profusely, and staring at Steve in panic. 

Steve stares back. 

It feels like there is an entire ocean between them, even now. They need more room than she can allow. 

“Okay,” she says, standing between them. “I know there’s a lot you two need to talk about, but we don’t have time for it right now. You’re gonna have to put a lid on it until we’re someplace safe. Sam, help Steve pack. Barnes, we need to talk about what happened on the field. Now.” 

She walks out of the front door before anyone can broach any arguments. She sits on the bench outside on the porch and hears Sam helping Steve out of the room before it’s replaced by the cautious steps of Barnes behind her. 

“I know I screwed up. If you want me to go, I’ll go,” he says.

“Don’t you dare,” she replies. “Sit down.”

He does, but warily, like he did that first night on her couch; as if all the progress they’ve made has been undone. They sit in silence for a while. On one hand, they shouldn’t be loitering, but on the other, this is not a conversation that they can rush. 

“What happened, James?”

He relaxes minutely at the sound of his name. “The gun. I… got confused.”

She looks at him, patiently waiting for more.

“It’s all… scattered up here,” he says, gesturing to his head. “All the time. Sometimes I’m a weapon, sometimes I’m… “Bucky”,” he says, like he’s testing the word out on his tongue, it’s foreign to him still, despite Sam calling him by that name since his return, despite Steve, “sometimes I am neither of these people. So it’s hard to know where thoughts come from. I thought what I did was right. I thought you were… the enemy. But that’s past. I know it’s past now, but it felt right at the time. Like a dream. You don’t know until you wake up…what’s real.”

“You’ll understand if I don’t find that very comforting.” 

“I…” he buries his face in his hands. His hair is still long enough to obscure his expression from her sight. He pulls at his hair, so tightly she wants to reach over and pry his fingers away but she doesn’t want to risk startling him. “I don’t know who I am,” he whispers.

She lets out a long breath. Acceptance is the first step, right? But to help him, she will have to give a little of herself away. “I understand that,” she admits. “I did not know who I was for the longest time. I did not know which memories were true, and which were false. Which were _mine_. Our memories make us, and without them, it’s easy to feel like no one at all. I felt lost.”

She has his attention. She can tell in the way he’s looking at her; like she can present him with a magical solution. 

“What did you do?” he asks.

“Eventually, I worked it out. But for a long time, the best I could do was hold on to what I knew was true in my heart, trust my instincts, and I found that once I had one truth, it was easier to build more.”

He blinks in understanding.

“Do you have any truths?” she asks. 

He searches her for a moment before his eyes land on her neck. “I hurt you,” he says. “I was going to kill you. I don’t want to do that again.”

She smiles. “Then you have somewhere to begin.” She reaches out slowly, his eyes tracking her movements warily, until her hand comes to rest atop his. “Stay. And we’ll work this out. You’ll find your place. And if it helps, you’re welcome to tell me your truths as you find them. I find it usually helps to say these things out loud.” 

“Thank you,” Barnes says, in a voice that isn’t used to forming the words. She wonders if he’ll actually be able to take her up on the offer. He finds it difficult to ask for things, even if it’s as simple as borrowing a pen, but he always answers if you ask. She wonders to what extent he thinks of them as handlers and their words as orders.

She is getting up to leave when Barnes asks, “He’s expecting ‘Bucky’ isn’t he?”

She doesn’t need to ask who “he” is. No matter what Sam has advised the both of them, Steve will still expect to see his childhood friend underneath whoever Barnes is now. 

“You will both need time to adjust,” she says. “I know you’re good at pretending... I’ve seen you do it before; imitate the things you used to do. It can be easier to rely on old memories, I know, but… you both might find it easier in the long-run if you don’t do that with him. He’s a patient man. But his heart is a fragile one.”

Barnes blinks in understanding once more, and then leaves to pack his few belongings. 

Natasha lets him leave and busies herself in preparations. She allows herself a minute in the bathroom to wipe away the dried blood on her neck. The cut itself is beginning to heal but it’s still red raw. She watches herself in the reflection as her fingers come to touch the wound. She doesn’t want to see the Winter Soldier staring back at her from Barnes’ face again. 

She texts Maria with the location for clean-up. She hopes the information doesn’t make it’s way back to Stark, but Natasha is limited for options, and she already suspects he knows more about their situation than the middle men are telling her. 

Natasha searches for Sam and finds him packing in the kitchen. “How’s Steve?” she asks. 

“Anxious. And still in pain. I cleaned him up the best I could, and put a new bandage on his gut. How’s Bucky?”

“Anxious,” she imitates. “He’s sweeping the clearing outside, just in case. We should be outta here in five. But I’ve gotta ask,” she drops her voice although she knows Barnes isn’t within hearing range, “did you see the way he was clawing at his arm?”

“Did I see it?” Sam asks. “I may have had my arms full of super soldier, but it was pretty hard to miss.”

“Yeah, well, I think…”

“Yeah, I think that too,” Sam interrupts. “He’s not cutting because we told him not to. But he still feels the need to self-harm.”

Natasha nods.

Sam busies himself packing food for the road. “I was wrong about putting him in the field. I thought if anything it would help him readjust but if I knew it would have triggered something so severe, I-”

Natasha stops him with a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s too early to draw conclusions yet -”

“He hurt you,” Sam gulps. “And it endangered the mission.”

“But we’re fine. Please don’t beat yourself up over it. No one could have known what would happen.” She strokes up and down his arm until it looks like Sam’s guilt has ebbed away. “What I need to know is, if Barnes thought it was an order when we told him not to cut himself. We need to know to what extent he’s exercising free will here.”

Sam breathes out slowly, flexes his arms on the kitchen counter. “Okay. The way I figure it, an ordinary soldier would have had some downtime, but from the intel we’ve got, it sounds like Bucky went from mission to mission, order to order, without…” he breaks off. “It would have been relentless. They would have given him no time to himself in case he found _himself._ So, he probably still thinks in terms of goals and targets and intel… and, yeah, he might find the line between asking and ordering a difficult one.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” 

Sam finishes packing a bag of food for the road and then turns to Natasha. “The other, more optimistic answer, is that he knew we would be upset if he hurt himself. That he stopped himself from self-harming, not because we wanted him to and we might punish him for not following orders -”

Natasha cringes because that is undoubtedly what Barnes was used to.

“- but because he wanted to save _us_ pain.”

Natasha mulls this over, compares it with his recent behaviour and his confession on the porch. “Maybe.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It’s hard to get a good read on him. I can’t tell how much he cares…” She trails off upon hearing the front door swing open. Barnes will be able to hear them soon. “I’m going to let Isaiah know we’re okay,” she says, loudly enough for them all to hear.

She packs her few belongings into the bag by the couch, ready for the road again, with the phone tucked under her chin. 

The call has barely connected when Isaiah picks up and exclaims, “You couldn’t have called five minutes ago?!”

Guiltily, she realises she could have done. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Isaiah. I’m fine.”

“Oh, well as long as _you’re_ fine.”

There’s a beat of silence before Natasha dares to ask, “What the hell happened in the last five minutes?”

“Your Plan B got leaked.”

Natasha smothers her laugh but if Isaiah’s annoyed huff is anything to go by, she didn’t do a good enough job. “So Clint knows?”

“Yes,” Isaiah sighs, which means that’s not all, because he’d be amused at Clint’s expense but Isaiah still sounds guilty as hell. 

“And?”

“Stark,” he whispers.

Natasha drops her bag and swears under her breath. “Stark knows we’re here.”

She wishes she’d had the forethought to make this call in private. Sam was helping Steve down hallway but they now stand paused in the doorway to the living area. A curious Barnes has also crawled out of wherever he was hiding and stands beside them. All of them, watching. 

“Yes,” Isaiah says and Natasha swears she can see him cringe through the phone. “The message was intended for Miss Potts but Stark intercepted it… As I understand it, Agent Hill is also under orders to report your movements to Stark. You might want to get out of there. ”

“I was planning on it,” Natasha says, kneeling down to zip up her bag. “I’ll give you a call when we’re at the next safehouse.” She pauses in her goodbyes and looks up at Barnes; she’s going to have some difficult decisions to make soon. “Stark knows we have Barnes, doesn’t he?” she asks, not breaking her gaze with the man in question, although he does as soon as the question is out of her mouth, looking down at the wooden floor. 

“Yes,” Isaiah says.

“Do we know what he wants yet?”

“No. It’s still anybody’s guess if he wants a legal trial, or imprisonment, or experimentation…” 

Natasha cringes. 

“...he just wants him and… Natasha, it’s unwise to stand in his way. He has more power than S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra combined right now.”

Natasha stands up, her voice laced with suppressed anger, “Has he threatened you?” 

She watches as all three of her men stiffen with their different tells, even Steve in his weakened state, always ready to fight. It warms her that they’d still fight for her, as exhausted as they are.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Isaiah dismisses. “Call me when you get somewhere safe. Do you need me at the funeral?”

Her stomach clenches uncomfortably. In all of the chaos, she’d forgotten the reason behind her instinct to move east. It’s Peggy’s funeral in Washington in a couple of days. She wishes it could provide the closure she so desperately needs, that she could spend the time honouring Peggy’s memory, with the men that mean the most to both of them beside her. But it’s impossible. Stark will be there. S.H.I.E.L.D. too. If Bucky goes, they’ll have a civil war on their hands. The funeral has become a tactical mission. If they were wise, they wouldn’t go at all, but she can’t do that to Peggy. To Steve. Natasha will have think of something. 

“No,” she says, “it’s okay, you don’t have to come. Clint will be there if anything happens...”

“Are you sure -”

“I can trust him,” Natasha says, cutting him off. 

“I know you do but he’s friends with Stark.”

“So am I. So is Steve. I can trust him, Isaiah.”

They hang up soon afterwards and they move faster knowing that their location has been compromised. Sam takes the keys to the car. Barnes and Steve take up opposite corners of the back seat (Steve sneaking glances at Barnes every two seconds and Barnes curled up into himself pretending not to notice) and Natasha takes the passenger seat. The same radio station is playing and the music at least disguises their silences. 

Natasha waits until they’ve pulled onto the I-90 and she’s sure they’re not being followed before closing her eyes. “Wake me up when you need directions,” she says to Sam. 

One highlight of her profession is the ability to fall asleep anywhere quickly whenever she feels safe, and waking up immediately in a change of circumstances. This is how she knows that, aside from the occasional comment between Sam and Steve, the car journey passes in silence. 

Sam wakes her up on the outskirts of Missoula with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder. “Gonna need your help soon.”

She directs him towards the underground garage where they change cars and then they circle back to the safehouse. It’s an unremarkable house in the suburbs. S.H.I.E.L.D paid to keep it maintained, but it doesn’t look like Coulson has given it the same priority. Hopefully that means it’s been forgotten about it. Weeds are beginning to grow between the picket fence. She wonders if Isaiah will let her buy another safehouse, but then again, how many ex-S.H.I.E.L.D operatives know about this place? More than she’s comfortable with. 

“Make sure you’re covered,” she says to Barnes, but he’s ahead of her, already pulling up his borrowed hoody over his baseball cap, his hands hidden by gloves. Natasha nods her approval, and they get out of the car.

“I’m going to check it out,” she says, tucking her gun into the waistband of her jeans.

“I’ll come with you,” Sam says, and follows her up the walkway. 

She’s glad he volunteered. The others would want to, but Steve can barely walk, and she doesn’t want Barnes anywhere near a gun again just yet. 

They scout it out, but the only invader is the thin layer of dust that covers everything. There’s plenty of space compared to the cabin and her usual closet-sized safehouses. 

“Okay,” she says. “Lets bring the bags in, and then I’ll operate on Steve.”

Sam looks towards the kitchen table where Natasha was planning on operating. “You sure you don’t want to eat before you cover the kitchen in blood?”

“We’ll get take-out for dinner.”

Sam nods. “We’re not staying for long, are we?” 

Natasha sighs. She wants more than anything to offer these men some time to collect themselves, but realistically it’s just not feasible. “We need to keep moving. Peggy Carter’s funeral is in a couple of days in Washington. Steve will want to go. But… at this rate, he might have to go alone. We have to keep Barnes out of sight, and Stark will be there, it’s too risky -”

“What about you?” 

Natasha shrugs. She’s good at pretending that things don’t matter to her. 

Sam is practised at reading feigned indifference though. He places his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll do what we can to get you there,” he says. “I promise.”

She smiles at Sam’s support and tries not to think about what she might have to do. Instead, she grips his jacket in her hands, stands on tiptoes and presses a firm kiss against his lips. “Thank you,” she whispers.

If there’s more emotion behind the kiss than the conversation warranted, then neither of them mention it. There is too much between all of them for it to mean anything more. 

“Let’s go get our boys,” she smirks. 


	10. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team finally get a breather and discuss the things between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you get squicked out by gore, you can skip over Natasha operating on Steve's injured leg, which happens at the very start of this chapter. All you need to know is that Nat has Issues about hurting people and Steve makes an accidental dick joke. Search for "Afterwards, they carry Steve to the couch" and come in there.

“You know my leg really isn’t that bad…” Steve says when he sees the makeshift operating table awaiting him and the display of tools Natasha has at the ready.

“Stop being such a goddamn pansy,” Barnes mutters in an imitation of his old self as he nudges Steve towards the kitchen table. “It’s a tiny knife.”

“Then you and I have very different definitions of _tiny_ ,” Steve bites.

Natasha hears an amused snort coming from the corner and knows that Sam’s mind went the same place hers did. 

“Seriously?” Steve asks them, giving them a despairing looks as he hops up onto the table.

Sam holds his hands up in defense. “I don’t make the rules, man. You mention size, someone is going to laugh.”

Barnes chuckles with an oddly affectionate smile.

Natasha turns towards Steve, who is obediently lying down on the kitchen table in nothing but his t-shirt and boxers. “I have painkillers,” she says, “but with your biology, I don’t know if - ”

“I’ll need too many,” Steve interrupts, shaking his head. “You won’t have any left if you need them later. It’s fine. Just… do it.”

“It’s not going to be quick,” she tells him. She doesn’t know who she’s trying to dissuade here - him or her. “It’ll hurt.”

His hand comes up to wrap around hers. “I know,” he says sincerely. 

He’s reassuring her and giving her permission to hurt him. It’s this kind of stupid bravery that made her fall for him in the first place, and this ridiculous amount of good-heartedness that made her afraid to give into it. He will always let her hurt him, and that’s why she stayed away. 

But, this time, it’s a hurt that has to be made. If she doesn’t operate soon, his leg will heal incorrectly, and the broken fragments of bone will wreak havoc. It’s the best solution, she knows that, but it won’t be easy for any of them. 

“Okay,” she says, and places her hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to lay back down on the table. He keeps eye contact the whole way. 

“Barnes,” she instructs. “I need you to hold him down.” 

He nods and goes to stand by Steve’s shoulder. He’s still in Brooklyn-boy mode but Natasha doesn’t know if it’s by design or not; it doesn’t take a genius to know that the childhood friend, Bucky, is who Steve needs right now. 

“Sam,” she calls, and he steps out of his corner towards her. She hands him the handheld x-ray. “I need you to hold this when I make the incisions, but help Barnes keep him still as well.”

Sam nods. He looks about as uncomfortable with this as she feels. Sure, they’ve all done patching up without painkillers from time to time, but usually it’s restricted to a few stitches, not a whole goddamn surgery. 

She forces her hand not to shake as she picks up the knife. 

Sam squeezes Steve’s hand in reassurance before standing by Natasha and holding the x-ray over the shattered shin. 

She sighs in relief when she sees the display. “Okay,” she tells herself, and then explains to the others, “It’s not as bad as it could be. It looks like the central parts are fusing together to make a new bone…” she puts her hand over Sam’s and guides the x-ray over the affected area. “There’s a lot of fragments near the surface, it looks like they’re being pushed to the top and side… I’ll cut them out and then we’ll see where we are.”

She shows Sam which fragment she’s going for - the one that’s visibly being pushed out of Steve’s skin - and then, with one last nod from Steve, she makes the first incision. 

Steve grits his teeth, the men hold him down, and through the pouring blood she can see the bone. She uses the tweezers to pry it out, and at this Steve does scream, as the jagged piece is pulled through muscle on its way out. Barnes is murmuring something to him that she can’t hear. When the bone is finally clear and it clatters in the metal bowl she looks to Steve. He’s gripping Barnes’ hand so tightly it’s turning white but Barnes doesn’t look phased; his metal hand is pressing down on Steve’s hip, keeping him still, but his eyes don’t leave Steve’s. Sam holds down Steve’s knee with confidence but he’s sweating, and probably not just from the exertion it takes to keep steady. 

Natasha closes her eyes against the sight. She pushes down her guilt. This is a hurt that she has to make. She takes a deep breath, and keeps cutting, until the job is done.

Afterwards, they carry Steve to the couch. He’s pale and tired with blood loss but insisting that he’s fine. Sam leaves to get take-out and Natasha starts on the long task of cleaning the blood from the kitchen. 

She doesn’t realise she’s crying until there’s a strong hand on her shoulder. She startles, and drops the cloth in the bucket of bloody water. Her hands are shaking. She watches them in fear and fascination. She lost herself. She doesn’t know how much time has passed. 

It’s Sam behind her. He moves his hand to rest gently against hers. “Come on,” he encourages, lifting her to her feet. 

“How long have I been...?” she whispers.

A flash of pity crosses Sam’s face before he can hide it. “Thirty minutes, give or take. The food’s here.” 

He doesn’t ask if she’s okay or comment on the tears, but he strokes his fingers over Natasha’s bloodied hands and presses a kiss to her temple, and it’s all she needs to know that he’s seen it and understands. She was processing in the only few moments of solitude that she had. 

Natasha rests her head on his shoulder, and relaxes into his embrace as she gradually comes back to reality. 

She can see through the open door to the living room to where Barnes is holding Steve on the couch, his fingers stroking his hair and his voice a low murmur. He’s comforting him.

“They’ve been like that the whole time,” Sam whispers into her ear. “And… I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not acting as far as I can tell. It’s _our_ Bucky. ”

A weight lifts from her shoulders at knowing it’s not an act. Maybe looking after Steve was such a large part of Barnes’ old self, that it’s bled through everything else. It looks natural; instinctive. 

“You did good,” she whispers to Sam.

Sam pulls back with a look of confusion.

“You were right. He needed to be on the field. At least for a little while.”

Sam starts to protest. “He _hurt_ \- “

“- me, yes, I know, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. It led to him realising that he doesn’t want to do it again, and I suspect he has found another truth now, in Steve. It was the right decision. We had to give him the freedom to find himself, and being on the field is such a fundamental part of his past identities that we couldn’t deny him the chance to explore it. I wanted to delay the inevitable, to keep him safe, but you were right to send him with us on that mission. Sometimes we have to do something our old self used to do realise that we’re no longer the same person...” she trails off into her own thoughts. 

Sam sighs. He still feels guilty for recommending Barnes for the field. 

“Look at them, Sam,” she says, turning his head with her fingertips. 

He does, and a soft smile crosses his face. 

“You did good,” she insists.

He picks up both of her hands, still tinted red from Steve’s blood. “So did you,” he says sincerely. “I know that wasn’t easy.”

“I doubt it was for any of us.” 

Sam shakes his head with a laugh. “Yeah, that’s true. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

By the time Natasha has washed her hands enough to feel clean, the others are picking over the cartons of Chinese food spread across the coffee table. 

“Man, I wish we had beer,” Sam says as he spears a wanton with a chopstick.

“I wish I could get drunk, period,” Steve says, as he untangles himself from Barnes, props his bandaged leg on the coffee table, and commanders the soup.

Barnes looks at the food in front of him quizzically. It still takes him a long time to make decisions, and even longer to believe he has the right to them. He’s better with direct questions; ones with “yes” or “no” answers. 

Natasha takes pity on him, and when she serves herself some chow mein, offers him the remains of the carton. “You want the rest of it? Sam and Steve don’t like it so much.”

He takes the carton from her hands. His eyes are grateful, but there’s something else lining his face. Shame, maybe. It’s hard to tell. He uses the chopsticks like a natural, but of course he does; there’s probably a memory attached to the skill somewhere deep down. 

“Beer would be good,” Natasha says, picking up the conversation, “but, Sam, you’re the only one here with a normal constitution so -”

Sam’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding me? You can’t get drunk either?”

“Oh, I can,” Natasha says with a flirty smile, “but I process alcohol quicker… something like two- or three-to-one, rather than Steve’s - “

“Six-to-one,” Steve pitches in, reaching for another dumpling. “Roughly.” 

“Right,” she says. “And Bucky is anyone’s guess.” 

Barnes shrugs despondently. 

Natasha feels immediately guilty for mentioning it. Fuck knows what Barnes remembers from the initial injection and every experiment he was subjected afterwards. He’s dealing with enough without her dredging up painful memories just to make conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a wince, “I meant - ”

“No, it’s okay,” Barnes says quietly, putting down the chow mein on the coffee table. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

Silence falls over them, and Natasha feels unusually out of control of the situation. Barnes’ face is hidden by his hood. His body language doesn’t betray anything. She doesn’t know what to do.

“Well,” Sam says confidently, and her eyes snap to him, waiting to see where he’s going with this. “There is one way to find out.” Sam smirks and then wriggles his eyebrows in a suggestive way. 

Steve snorts in laughter at the ridiculous action, his arm coming to rest behind Barnes on the couch. 

Barnes looks towards Sam with a shy smile on his face, but what comes out of his mouth is anything but innocent, as he flirts in a gravelly voice, “Do you want to get me drunk, Soldier?”

Natasha crosses her legs as if it’ll somehow calm her instinctual reaction to that goddamn voice. 

It’s some consolation that she’s not the only one with obvious tells - both Steve and Sam look incredibly uncomfortable, and not in the way they were a minute ago - Steve’s biting his bottom lip, looking torn between his men, and Sam’s eyes are flitting between Barnes’ eyes and mouth. 

Christ, Barnes is as unpredictable as they come. She wouldn’t be surprised if he leapt across the coffee table to pin Sam against the wall, the only question would be if it was with a kiss or a knife. Her body shows more interest in the thought than it should.

After a tense moment, Sam finally breaks the gaze with a soft chuckle. “I want to get _me_ drunk,” he says and then downs the soda in front of him as if it’ll do the trick.

Steve smiles indulgently. “Yeah, me too,” he says, and then turns to the others with a smug look on his face, “Sam gets cuddly when he’s been drinking.”

Sam puts down the soda can with a loud clink. “Seriously, man?! Did you have to-?”

But it’s too late; Barnes huffs in laughter and Natasha is already giggling behind her hands. The thought of a clingy Sam is adorable. She can imagine him climbing all over Steve trying to find the best cuddling position all too easily. It makes her regret that after her night with Sam, they didn’t also share a lazy morning; she knows it would have been full of sleepy caresses and kisses. Another time, she promises herself, but then feels immediately guilty for thinking it… she doesn’t know if she can stay. She shouldn’t make promises like that to herself.

Steve waves off Sam’s protests. “They already know you’re a big ol’ softie.”

“Oh, and you’re the one to talk, Little Spoon.”

Natasha almost chokes on her noodles. She is accosted with the mental image of Steve curled up in bed, but with herself wrapped over and around his large frame. A ridiculous image considering their size difference but all the cuter for it. She doesn’t think her heart can take much more tonight. 

Barnes looks at her with an amused smile, and there’s definitely some red to his cheeks. She doesn’t know exactly how close Steve and Barnes were before all this, but she bets the “little spoon” comment came as no surprise. 

Natasha shakes her head with a laugh. “We’re actually doing this, aren’t we?” The words leave her mouth before she has time to vet them. She looks up to seem them all looking at her, and she has a split second of dread before deciding that it really was about time they had this conversation with them all in the same damn room. “All of us…”

Steve and Sam exchange a look. They’ve discussed it before, she knows, regarding herself, but not Barnes to her knowledge. They seem to have a silent negotiation before all eyes turn to Barnes. 

Sam says carefully, “As long as everyone is… okay, with that.”

Barnes finally seems to realise everyone’s looking at him for a decision. “I don’t… know,” he says meekly. Natasha knows it’s going to be a thousand times more complicated than that: _I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know if I can feel, I don’t know… I don’t know..._

Natasha reaches across to lay her hand over his. He locks eyes with her. “Anything you want, whenever you decide it, even if you don’t know what that is yet.” 

Barnes eyes land on Natasha’s neck, where a mark from his knife is still showing, before his eyes roam over Sam and Steve’s earnest expressions, and then his gaze drops into his lap once again. “Why?” he croaks. “I’m -” _broken, useless, a threat, no one_ \- 

“James,” Natasha says firmly, giving him an answer while drawing his gaze back to hers. “No one deserves anything…”

He smiles sadly in recollection of their previous conversations, and then his face shifts to one of scrutiny. “You’re all crazy,” he says. 

Natasha smiles just as Steve jokes, “You fit right in then,” and nudges Barnes playfully in the stomach. 

Steve cringes as he recovers from the move and the smile falls off her face instantly. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says distractedly, pulling up his tee to show the bloodied bandage across his stomach. “Just a little sore.”

Sam kneels down in front of him, concern lining his face. “Can I?” he asks, pointing at the bandage.

“Sure.”

Sam peels back the bandage and Natasha can see a couple of hasty stitches holding together raw red skin. It’s holding though. 

“Has it stopped bleeding?” she asks.

“Looks like,” Sam says, placing the bandage back again and then looking up to glare at Steve. “Take it easy though, yeah? I’m not your nurse.”

“Will do,” Steve says, pulling his tee back down. His leg is still resting against the coffee table, wrapped in bandages. 

“Have you tried walking on that yet?” Natasha asks, pointing with her chopsticks to the leg. “You should give it a go sometime tonight, if there’s still pressure somewhere, I’d rather go digging now than when it’s fully healed.” 

Steve winces. “Can we go back to embarrassing me? It was a lot less painful than this conversation.”

“Rogers,” Natasha scolds playfully. 

“Fine,” Steve snaps and stubbornly pushes himself to standing without so much as a warning. All three of them drop their dinner and rush towards him, their hands supporting him as he tilts dangerously forward. “On second thoughts…” Steve says, one arm coming around Sam’s broad shoulders, and the other around Barnes’ as Natasha supports his front. “Maybe I should have done that slower…”

“You think?!” Sam exclaims. 

Steve closes his eyes, breathes out the pain, and when he opens them, they’re clear and gazing straight at Natasha. She feels her heart flutter at the intensity of his gaze. It occurs to her she hasn’t even kissed him yet. He’s so close, it would be so easy...

“How does it feel?” Barnes asks, and it takes Natasha embarrassingly long to realise that he’s talking about Steve’s injured leg. 

“It’s okay,” Steve says, breaking Natasha’s gaze to look down at the damage. “I mean, it hurts like hell because I’m bleeding from twenty different places, but… it doesn’t feel pressured anymore. Or like anything’s digging into me. It feels… fine.” He looks up to Natasha again, with a soft smile, and shuffles closer so that his fingertips can brush Natasha’s cheeks from either side of where his arms rest against the men. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. 

He leans forward and Natasha meets him halfway as his lips finally - god, _finally_ \- press against hers. She hears an intake of breath but it could quite easily belong to any of them as Steve inquisitively moves his lips over hers. She feels someone clutch at the back of her shirt - Barnes - and other fingers curl around her hips - Sam - and she’s literally surrounded by the men she loves. It’s too much. Her heart aches with it. If this was just sex, it would be dizzying enough, but this overwhelming amount of _affection_ makes her whole mind, her whole body, just dissipate. One of her hands is still pressed against Steve’s chest and she can feel the pounding of his heart. Her other hand is holding the back of his neck, her fingers curling in the hair there, and encouraging his lips back to hers. 

He breaks off with a surprised gasp. “I think I’m going to collapse now -”

Natasha swears upon realising just how pale Steve has become. As dizzying as it felt for her, with his blood loss, he must be feeling more than just weak in the knees. The three of them lower him to the couch. Barnes takes his place beside him and Sam perches on the armrest. 

Natasha reaches for the soda on the coffee table and passes it to Steve. “Drink lots, eat lots, then get some sleep, okay?” 

Not one of them seem surprised when she stands up and takes her jacket from the back of the armchair. They all watch, like they want to say something, but none of them do as she makes her way to the door and out into the cool night. 

_Breathe_ , she tells herself, _just fucking breathe_. 


	11. Not A Choice To Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha does some soul searching.

Natasha walks for a long time. 

It’s cold. She’s armed with a single knife. She doesn’t even have a phone with her. Or money. She should have held it together for five more minutes, packed a bag and hotwired a car. But she can’t leave them like this, no matter how much her instincts are screaming for her to run, they need her, and she owes them. 

She got them in this mess, and she will get them out. 

She at least has to wait until Steve’s healed, the funeral is over, and the fate of Barnes is decided. But who knows how long that will take? 

And then there’s the little voices in her head, the ones that want to help Sam find his purpose, and the ones that want to witness the little steps in Barnes finding himself, and the ones that want to hold Steve through his grief until he finds acceptance. 

She wants to give in to her feelings, but she’s afraid to do it. If she comes to depend on them, then she will get hurt. Again. And this time, she’s not sure if she would be strong enough to deal with the fallout. Steve has already been hurt because of her, and was it worth it? 

Natasha should have walked away months ago… if she never found Barnes, if she was stronger in her resolve to stay away, if her research had dug a little deeper… _if, if, if_.... but she should have found some way to keep her distance. Now, she is implicated, and the instinct to run is no longer an easy decision.

She walks around the unfamiliar city of Missoula, instinctively backtracking, circling the side streets, and avoiding the visible cameras. She doesn’t want to make it too easy for Stark. 

Before the complication of Barnes, she could have called any number of acquaintances for help with her situation. Not that she’d tell them what was wrong, but it was the talking about mundane things that helped. It was grounding. And those that knew her well enough would figure out the crux of the matter - whatever it was Natasha was avoiding - and give her the advice she needed to hear. Just as Peggy did the last time Natasha saw her. What she would give for Peggy’s advice right now… but there’s no use wishing for impossible things. 

Clint would worry. Kate would only tell Clint. Sharon will be in mourning. Maria, Logan, Pepper… they’ll all be under Stark’s control. Coulson’s team are also out as she doesn’t want to draw attention to them. She needs an unbiased equal who doesn’t mind sentimentality and who won’t ask too many questions. 

She calls Bruce Banner. 

There’s a payphone on the corner of an alley, and Natasha has collected a handful of change on her journey. It’s late now. Far later than is civilised but she has a feeling he won’t mind; he keeps unusual hours.

The call connects. “Hi, Bruce.”

“Natasha?” he asks.

“I’m sorry if I woke you - ”

“No, not at all,” he says, meaning that she did. “Though I have to say this is unexpected.” 

“For us both. I just… needed to talk to someone not involved. You’re not involved, are you?”

“Depends on your definition. I’ve heard Tony’s side of the story, if that’s what you mean.”

“And what do you make of it?”

“That it’s his side. I trust you Natasha, if you don’t want to bring the Winter Soldier in, then you must have your reasons.”

“I do,” Natasha says earnestly. “My reason is that he’s not the Winter Soldier, but he’s not Bucky Barnes either. If I let Stark have him, Barnes won’t get the choice of deciding who he is. They’ll treat him like the monster they think he is and he’ll start to believe it. I think that’s something we both understand.”

Bruce grunts in agreement. 

“But I didn’t call you to talk about Barnes,” Natasha says. 

“No? Then what did you want to talk to me about?”

“I had a question about the Other Guy,” she says. 

She hears the intake of breath over the line. “Oh, _that_.” 

“Do you sometimes…?” she pauses, trying to work out how to phrase the question. “I know you’re in control but do you sometimes… not want to be?” 

There’s a loud sigh and then, “You’re after my advice, Natasha? You have a strange way of asking for it. But, okay. I know I should say ‘no’... the Other Guy’s dangerous, but… he’s also very simple. He relies on instinct. When he’s in charge, you don’t have to think. It’s… freeing, in a matter of speaking.”

“I get that,” Natasha says, remembering the peace that came with being surrounded by her men; nothing in her mind, just her body’s instinct leading her. “But do you ever feel that by giving into yourself, allowing that side to exist, that you’re endangering others? Those you care about?”

“Natasha…”

“Bruce, please. Humor me.”

“Okay, okay…” he sighs. “Of course I feel like that, but if they know the risk, and still want to be there, then you have no right to tell them to leave. It’s their choice. We all got problems, Natasha, some larger than others, but it doesn’t mean you have to push everyone away to deal with them.”

Natasha nods, even though he can’t see it. He’s right of course. It’s a lesson that she’s still trying to learn. It’s why Clint gave her the necklace in the first place - “so you remember that someone cares if you come back alive” - and she keeps it as a reminder to herself that some people won’t let themselves be pushed away. Like her answer to Barnes asking “why?” because it’s not about deserving anything, not really, because you never get to choose who loves you; people will always care about other people because it’s in our very nature. _It’s not a choice to love_ , she realizes, _but it is a choice to stay_. 

“Besides,” Bruce says, “by this point I think we’ve all endangered each other at least once. We’re all riddled with guilt. Whatever you’re blaming yourself for, someone else is probably blaming themselves for doing the same thing to you.”

Natasha huffs a laugh, and that’s when she notices a shadow in the alley. Barnes. Of course. 

“Thank you,” she tells Bruce. “I needed to hear that.”

She says her goodbyes, hangs up, and then speaks into the darkness that she knows is listening. “How is it you always know how to find me?”

Barnes steps out of the shadows. He’s well covered-up; long-sleeves, hands in hoody pockets, baseball cap. “You can’t be surprised. We’re both made of similar stuff.”

She smiles, it’s not the first time she’s thought it. 

“If you want to be alone, I can go,” he offers. “It’s just… the others were worried you weren’t coming back.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was either,” she sighs, leaning against the payphone.

“You leave a lot, don’t you?”

She huffs. 

“They said last time, it was for months…”

“I freaked out.”

“Like you’re doing now?” he asks, stepping closer until she can see his face in the light of the streetlamps. 

“It’s just… a lot,” she attempts to explain. 

He nods. He understands. If anyone’s more lost with their feelings than her, it’s Barnes. “Anything you want, whenever you decide it, even if you don’t know what that is yet,” he repeats back to her word perfect. “It goes for you too…” his voice trails off, his eyes flickering down her body. 

Her breath catches. It’s like her body remembers that look and reacts instinctively; it’s the same devouring stare he gave her just before they fucked, fast and brutal, on the wooden floor of the safehouse in Seattle. Heat surges through her at the thought of it happening again. “Do you… _want_ something?” she asks.

“Do you?” he counters.

Their eyes lock. She can see his pupils dilate and feel her heart picking up speed. She licks her dry lips. 

_You realise there’s always a leap of faith, right?_ It’s Clint’s voice, his advice about her situation, but it’s also strikingly similar to what Clint said before he kissed her the first time. Her leap of faith, this time, comes in praying that she’s been reading Barnes right and that she trusts her instincts enough to know what they both need. 

Barnes’ eyes drop to her lips and her body screams with the urge to touch him. She hauls him in by his shirt for a bruising kiss. He moans in surprise but surges against her, hard and unrelenting. She grips his hair, knocking his hat askew, forcing him as close to her as possible. They’re pressed against the payphone booth and she can feel him hard against her. 

_Leap of faith, leap of faith…_

She digs her fingernails purposefully into his shoulder. 

He gasps, and for a second she thinks she’s read the situation wrong, but then he’s pulling her further into the shadows of the alley and pushing her against the wall.

“Fuck, Natalia…” he whispers in awe before his lips find her neck, brushing over the cut that he made that morning until he finds unbroken skin. He bites, and she gasps; it’s just the amount of pain she needed, and she twists her fingers in his hair enough to hurt, and enough to encourage him to leave a lovebite impossible to cover up. He grinds against her, his flesh hand pushing its way under her tight tee to cup her breast. 

She sighs at the new sensation, but it’s not enough to distract her from her goal. She tugs his metallic hand from her waist, and in a move that contradicts their rough and jerky movements, slowly sucks a finger into her mouth. 

He locks eyes with her. 

_All of you_ , she tries to say. 

He groans, and breaks the gaze. 

He pulls his finger from her mouth, but instead of hiding it again, she watches in anticipation as he trails it down her exposed stomach and then under her waistband. 

When he brushes against her peak, Natasha jerks and swears so loudly that it can probably be heard three states over. “Fuck,” she says again, emphatically, because nothing has the right to feel so fucking good. 

He growls against her ear and bites it for good measure, before he starts moving his hand in earnest. He’s rutting against her leg and she slips her hands round the back of his jeans, digging her fingernails into the skin of his ass, encouraging him. He pushes into it friction, but soon Natasha wants more, and her hands move to the front of his pants. He bites her lip enough to bleed, a warning, and then his flesh hand is leaving her breast to grasp her hands. He pins her wrists to rough brick wall above them. 

“Yes,” she sighs before he can even question it, and catches his lips in a passionate kiss. He takes the kiss and pushes back until her head is resting against the wall. His grip on her hands becomes a little harder; enough to leave bruises but not enough that she couldn’t break it if she wanted. It’s a trust game, and one that they desperately needed to play. 

He gasps and breaks the kiss, his breath coming ragged against her neck. He’s close, but she is too. He bites behind her ear and the sudden flash of pain pushes her over the edge into a sudden climax. His hand slows, drawing waves of aftershocks from her core as he ruts against her with increased determination. A few seconds later, he wordlessly shouts and buries his face in her neck. 

His short breaths echo hers as they recover and he slowly releases his hands from where they were taking her apart. Her wrists feel wonderfully stiff as they move to rest on his shoulders. 

Her thumb strokes across his neck and he looks across as her, suddenly shy, as if he’s ashamed, or apologetic, for their actions. She catches his eye, and gives him a reassuring smile. 

It seems to bolster him, as the next thing she knows, he’s laughing across her temple.

“What?” she asks, amused. 

He pulls away to look at their rumpled state of dress. “We just came in our pants in the back of an alley like some goddamn horny teenagers is what,” Barnes says. “Steve and Sam will never let us live it down.”

Natasha laughs, caught off-guard. It’s good he’s not freaking out about what they just did. She straightens his baseball cap and he pulls down her tee, still smiling. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt so refreshed. She needed it, not only to restore the balance between them, but as a release for the pent-up frustration they were both directing at themselves. 

He tucks her hair behind her ear and she turns her cheek into his hand, leaving a soft kiss there. He smiles indulgently at her and then leans down and kisses her sweetly. He licks over the small tear he caused and pushes past her lips to touch their tongues together before pulling back and peppering her lips with little kisses that she has to chase. Of course the new James Barnes is a fucking tease. _Of course_. She wins the game though, sucking on his bottom lip and waiting for his little moan, before breaking away. 

He shakes his head with a laugh, and then holds out his hand to her. “Let’s go home.” 

She takes it and doesn’t let go the whole way back. 

They pass the time in comfortable silence until about a block from the safehouse. “I’m guessing I can’t go to the funeral,” he says.

Natasha sighs. Reality has an ugly habit of intruding. “I’m sorry,” she says. “They’ll be too many people there that want you. We need to keep you moving.” 

“I understand,” he says, “and I appreciate what you… all of you… are doing for me. But Steve… he puts on a brave face, but you know he’s not okay, right?”

“I noticed. I’ll take care of him, James, I promise.”

“I know you will,” he says, placing a kiss against her temple. “But take care of yourself too, won’t you? I know you’re busy strategizing, trying to keep us safe, and I understand that, but it might help for Steve to see that he’s not alone in this.”

Her heart skips at the concern. He knows her so well already, using Steve’s welfare as a reason for her to grieve. She strokes her thumb against his hand. “You as well,” she says. “I know you haven’t had much time together with Steve, but when we get back from the funeral, he might - ”

“I’ll be there,” Barnes promises. And it’s a promise Natasha doesn’t doubt. Steve needs him, so his Bucky isn’t going anywhere. 

She squeezes his hand. 

“Peggy -” Barnes starts, and then sighs. “She deserved better than this. I wish I could have seen her again. Or go to D.C. with you and Steve. I - ” he breaks off again and clears his throat. He’s showing his weakness to her and she appreciates it. He could hide this away, but he’s not going to. “Peg always knew the right thing to do. Sometimes I hear her voice in my head…” he breaks their handhold to tap at his temple with frustration, “telling me to get back up again. Every time I fall, it’s like I know I’d be failing her if I didn’t at least try to get back up again. So I do. Keep trying to get better.” He huffs under his breath. “I swear, half the reason I tracked you down back in Seattle was because I had her voice in my head telling me to. I could’ve done this alone… put the pieces back together… avoided detection… but I didn’t want to. I was losing reality…” he displaces his hat as he runs his fingers over his rough and short hair. “I didn’t know what was real, I’d lost time, and I was lonely… I guess. And something said I could trust you. I hadn’t felt that sure about anything in a long time, but this voice in my head, this stupid ‘ld recollection of Peggy Carter kept pushing and pushing until I got up again and found you- ” he shakes his head. His hair is still long enough that errant strands fall over his eyes. “I owe her so much,” he whispers. “I wish I could be there.”

Natasha picks up his hand again, carefully lacing their fingers together until Barnes looks at her. “She would understand.”

Barnes smiles, breaks the gaze, and looks up to the sky wistfully. There’s a few stars visible behind the clouds and light pollution. “It’s still not right.”

“No, it’s not.” 

They enter the house as quietly as possible and take off their jackets and shoes by the front door. Barnes leads her by the hand to the master bedroom and by the light of the streetlamp through the curtain, she can see Sam and Steve curled up together in the large bed. It’s domestic, and it terrifies her as much as it warms her.

Barnes gives her hand a squeeze and kisses her cheek, before he walks into the en suite bathroom to clean up. It’s a practical move, but it also serves to give her the choice, and the privacy, to make the decision in; the decision of whether she stays. She’s free to leave. But she doesn’t want to. 

The bathroom light casts a line over the covers and it’s enough to stir the men awake. Despite Sam’s earlier claim of Steve being the little spoon, they’re instead curled towards each other like parentheses, their hands entangled between them. She approaches the bed on Sam’s side just as Steve’s eyes open. 

Steve looks across to her with wide eyes. “You came back,” he says, and he sounds genuinely surprised.

Her heart breaks with it. She never meant to hurt them with her leaving. She never intended for it to become a habit. She wants to promise them that she’s staying, that she’ll never leave again, but she won’t make them promises she can’t keep. There will come a day when she has to leave again, when it’ll get too much, and the only consolation she has for them is that it’s not today. 

Sam rolls over onto his back so he can look at her. His expression is filled with relief. Sam was probably the one that encouraged Barnes to find her; Barnes still isn’t confident enough to act of his own volition. She can imagine it: Barnes fidgeting, Sam suggesting it, and Steve citing the dangers and defending her privacy. She knows them all so well she can see the play-by-play. And she knows that the relief on his face is because if she’s back, Barnes is back, and they’re safe. Even in the darkness, she doesn’t doubt that Sam can see the evidence of Barnes all over her skin. What happened on the field knocked Sam’s confidence in his own judgement, and it’ll take time to restore that, but if it _was_ his suggestion that Barnes finds her, then hopefully this is progress. Good progress. For all of them. 

“Join us?” Sam says, reaching out for her.

She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Gimme two minutes.” 

Barnes comes back through to the bedroom in his boxers and tee just as Natasha’s stepping out of her pants. The bathroom light is switched off and it throws the room back into darkness. She hears the bed adjust to Barnes’ weight as he slides in next to Steve. 

As her eyes adjust and she approaches the bed once again, now clad in just her panties and tank top, she sees Barnes cautiously wrap his arm over Steve, as if he’s afraid of the action. She doesn’t know their history, not really, she doesn’t know how close they were _before_ , the only thing she knows is that the old Barnes “played it safe”. Have they even kissed? Have they held each other before tonight? If Steve’s blush and carefully interlinking of their hands over his chest is any indication, then, no, they have not allowed themselves to be this close before. It’s one thing to comfort each other on the battlefield, and in surgery, and in recovery… but this is a choice. She understands that. 

She slips in beside Sam, but before she can settle, he wraps his arms around her and inclines his head towards Steve with a raised eyebrow. He’s asking her if she wants to get closer, but more importantly, he’s giving her the chance to say “no”. He’s giving her a get-out if she wants one; to stay on the edge of the bed where she can easily leave if it becomes too much. 

It’s possible that she loves this man. She cups his cheek and places a firm kiss on his lips, and then, as much as it scares her, she nods. 

He smiles against her lips and then tightens his arms and rolls them over, until her back is pressed against Sam’s chest and her face is inches away from Steve’s. Her instinct is to entangle their legs, but Steve’s still injured, so the best she can do is weave her fingers together with Steve’s on the sheets between them like Sam had only minutes before. Steve’s other hand is still twined around Barnes’ and he’s clutching them both to his chest like a lifeline. 

She can see Barnes’ mop of hair over Steve’s shoulder, his nose pressed into his neck as if he’s trying to memorise the smell. Sam’s thumb is rubbing circles against her hip, and Steve’s looking at her like she’s the whole world. She brushes her lips against Steve’s in an apology and hears him sigh. Sam softly kisses her behind her ear, in the same place where Barnes had bit her in ecstasy not an hour ago. 

Natasha lets her eyes close, surrounded by the love that the men offer her so freely. She lets the warmth and safety of their embrace drain her worries, because no matter what happens, no matter the hurt that lies in store, at least she has this. Tonight, she has a home.


	12. Before It Gets Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team have a few moments together before they are separated once more.

Natasha wakes to the smell of coffee. 

They must have moved in their sleep, because her head is now pillowed on Sam’s chest and Steve lies on his other side. Barnes is nowhere to be seen. If it weren’t for the smell of coffee, she would be worried, but as it is, she rolls herself out of bed, careful not to wake the others, and goes in search of caffeine. Steve and Sam could do with some time to themselves; Sam’s barely had a moment alone with Steve since he was kidnapped, and now she’s about to steal him away again for Peggy’s funeral. 

Barnes is sitting on the sofa, holding his mug of black coffee in his hands, completely zoned out. He turns when she enters the room, and when he sees her, his face breaks into a wide grin. 

“Good morning to you too,” she says warily, and goes to pour herself coffee. 

By the time she turns back round with a full mug, Barnes’ grin has turned into laughter. His eyes have been on her the whole time, she realises. 

“What is it?” she asks, both worried and amused by his reaction.

Barnes shakes his head. “You look almost as bad as I do.”

Natasha puts down her coffee on the stained kitchen table as the memories of last night come back to her. Of their rough rendezvous in the alley. It’s then that she sees the red marks visible beneath the collar of his loose tee and recognises the stiffness in her wrists for what it is. “Oh fuck,” she says, her hand clamping down on her neck in realisation.

Barnes chuckles again, taking a victorious sip of his coffee, the smug son of a bitch. 

“Oh fuck,” she repeats, mortified. “I am going to have a hickey the size of Canada at Peggy Carter’s funeral.” She falls down into an armchair, reeling with pre-emptive embarrassment. 

Barnes smiles against his mug. “Trust me, she’d be proud. I mean, _I_ ’m proud.”

Natasha throws a couch cushion at him, but Barnes ducks expertly and continues to laugh. It’s hard to be pissed at him when she so rarely gets to hear his laugh. It’s nice, actually, and it sounds more genuine, less rehearsed than before. The new Barnes really is emerging as a mischievous, kinky, tease… and she finds that she’s A-OK with that. 

She turns the television on to some reality show, just so she doesn’t leave Barnes staring into space again. He probably knows the act for what it is, but he doesn’t argue. At least this way, he’s given the option to disengage his brain. 

She has a shower and then tries her best to cover the evidence of their lovemaking with the concealer she has. She catches herself smiling in the mirror and huffs at the smitten woman in the reflection. She won’t begrudge herself for being happy; she learnt fast to accept these giddy, light-free moments, and hoard them away for the days when it’s hard to see anything but gray. At the same time though, she can’t help but laugh at herself a little; she thought she’d never get to be this person again. There’s a brightness reflected in her eyes that she hasn’t seen for a long time. 

She wraps a towel around herself and goes to find clothes, but is stopped by the sounds coming from the bedroom. 

It’s clear that Sam and Steve are _at least_ fooling around. The bedroom door is open a crack, she could peek… she could actually join… but she doesn’t feel like they’re fully there yet, and Sam and Steve really do need some time together. She hovers in the hallway for a moment, but it’s clear that her clothes are just going to have to wait… plus, the thought of Barnes’ seeing her in nothing but a towel is amusing enough that she doesn’t mind all too much. 

Barnes is actually watching the TV; he’s changed the channel, and his feet are kicked up on the coffee table. Those are at least three decisions he’s made this morning: coffee, channel, table. She wonders if it’s the sex that’s made him so relaxed, or if it’s natural progress. But then she looks closer, and sees sweat stains on his tee. It might have taken him the whole time she was in the bathroom - half an hour - to force himself to make a simple choice like what to watch. She doesn’t know. She will never know what’s going on in his head. 

But he’s slouched now, in either feigned or genuine calm, and speaks without looking up. “They’re fucking, aren’t they?”

“Problem?” she asks, walking round to the couch. It worries her when she can’t see his expression. If there’s any signs of jealousy, she needs to catch them fast. 

He opens his mouth and turns his head to respond, but then his eyes roam over her body, and no words come out. She smirks at his reaction. It’s been awhile since she’s made someone speechless… well, without an ulterior motive. 

“Uh,” Barnes says eloquently moments later, “okay… now I see a problem.”

Natasha shakes her hair out of her face and comes to sit on the armchair again. Barnes’ eyes follow her the whole way. 

“And what problem is that?”

“I missed the spin.”

Natasha laughs. If it were Sam or Steve, she’d mock them for watching _Wheel of Fortune_ , but Barnes needs all the encouragement he can get, so she watches with him until the next commercial break and then goes about her work. 

By the time they’re all dressed and the laundry is in the washer, Natasha has booked their tickets to Washington, made a few calls, and undertaken a few essential tasks to maintain her web. Everything is three times slower in trying to avoid detection by Stark, but it’s not impossible. He may have more tools at his disposal now, but he’s no spy. 

They eat, put the clothes in the dryer, and start packing. Natasha and Steve will have to leave in less than an hour if they’re to make their flight. 

Natasha corners Sam in the bedroom, closes the door softly behind her, and hands him a piece of paper. 

“What’s this?” he asks, beginning to open it up.

She puts her hands over his before he can read it. “Locations of two different safehouses. Burn it once you’ve memorised them. I want you to start moving an hour after we’ve gone. They’re both no more than six hours out. Don’t tell me which one you’ve gone to until I text you the codeword we agreed on. Just use A or B in your response. If I don’t use the codeword, don’t tell me anything, and don’t let anyone pressure you into giving away your location. The only phone you can use is the new cell I gave you, okay? Stay offline if you can too. It might be a while before Steve and I get back to you because I’ll try to lose our tail. If you have to move in the meantime, do. Keep Bucky safe. Hidden. Got it?”

Sam nods gravely. “You really think it’s going to get worse?”

“I know it is,” Natasha says, and she squeezes his hands before letting go. “I’m waiting for the day that S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra to stop fighting long enough to notice us, and if it weren’t for Pepper, Stark would probably put me in the back of van at the fucking funeral. As it is... I doubt Stark’ll touch me; he’ll threaten, watch, plan... but his people won’t let him cause a scene.”

“I can’t believe we’re talking about Iron Man,” Sam huffs. “This guy is the same guy that fought off the aliens in New York, flies over kids’ birthday parties, pioneers clean energy… if he’s a bad guy-” he laughs bitterly “- then what the hell are we?”

“Tony’s not a bad man,” Natasha says. “Trust me, I’ve known plenty. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, and the situation isn’t beyond saving. I have to overcome his logic - and his ego - but it’s not impossible. If we can get Barnes stable…” she trails off, shaking her head. “But, it’s not going to happen. Not overnight. And that’s not something Stark understands. Hell, even if we had the charming Brooklyn version of Barnes with us, it wouldn’t stop Stark from seeing an enemy. He needs someone to blame for the destruction of S.H.I.E.L.D.; for all the deaths that day and the unrest since… not just personally, but he’s under a lot of pressure politically. People look to him to bring justice. I just need to make him see that if he wants the Winter Soldier caught, it’s not Barnes he needs, but the people that captured him, brainwashed him, trained him. I’m working on a plan and hopefully I’ll uncover some pressure points when I’m in Washington.” She reaches up and cups his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “I’m going to fix this,” she promises. 

Sam leans his forehead against hers and sighs. “And I don’t doubt it. I just wish there was something more I could do to help. I’m no good with all this spy stuff, or superhero stuff for that matter…”

Natasha knows he’s been worried about his position lately, but it’s the first time he’s put it so plainly. “Funny,” she says, “I remember you jumping out of the forty-first floor onto a moving helicopter after taking down the leader of the STRIKE team with your bare hands...”

He laughs as he straightens up, shaking his head slightly.

She concludes, “I’d say that was pretty heroic.”

“Okay,” Sam admits, “that was pretty cool. But it doesn’t mean I can keep up with you guys.” Natasha opens her mouth to argue but he talks over her, “You’re all _superhuman_. I mean, you don’t even _age_ like I do - and for one thing _that_ ’s gonna get weird as hell - but you guys operate on a whole other level, and that’s awesome, but you’ve gotta admit that I’m just gonna slow you down-”

Natasha grabs his shirt and pulls him closer. “That is _bullshit_.” Sam tries to break her gaze, but she doesn’t let him, standing so close that their foreheads are almost touching. “You may not be the fastest here but I am not the strongest. We’ve all got our different strengths, and without your plan to rescue Steve, without your sharp shooting, without your wings, without you calming me down when I thought I was going to self-destruct with all the goddamn guilt… Sam, we wouldn’t have made it. We _need_ you. I can assure you that none of us think any less of you because you don’t have the serum. I know you’re trying to work out your place right now, we all are, and if you decide that you don’t want this life - if you want to go back to helping veterans, or teaching, or anything else you want - then I will support you a hundred percent, but don’t you dare quit because you think that you don’t belong. _You do_ ,” she insists.

Sam swallows, and she finally lets him look away. She can’t help him with this decision, she realises. Everyone always talks to Sam when they need guidance but who does Sam turn to? She doesn’t know what it’s like to have doubts about her career because she’s always been built for this, and she doesn’t know what it’s like to leave a home and life behind like this. Sam needs someone “normal” to talk to… someone like _Clint_.

Yes. Barton’s used to being surrounded by mutants and super soldiers and whatever else whilst somehow clinging onto some semblance of normality, and he’s tried to retire… Once? Twice? She’s lost count. He might be the person Sam needs to talk to right now. 

“Sorry,” Sam says, prizing her hands from his shirt, “you have enough things going on, I shouldn’t be adding to them.”

How is it that Sam Wilson’s selflessness keeps having new depths? She reaches for his arm, and gently encourages him to face her again. “Yes, you should,” she says kindly. “I’m glad you shared your doubts… truthfully, I’m worried too. Relationships between agents are usually built on the assumption that it’s not gonna last long, but if we make it… aging is going to become an issue, and we’re all gonna want to quit this, or the job, or both at sometime or another. We just have to see how it goes. And as for everything else? You can do anything you want to do, Sam. I like fighting beside you, and you know as well as I do that Falcon has become a hero, but you got out once, and we shouldn’t have assumed that you would stay back in.”

Natasha watches every flicker of Sam’s expression with anxiety. It’s mad. Give her a mission and she can talk her way in and out of everything, but give her a good man and a honest conversation about feelings and every word feels like the wrong word. Sam isn’t giving much away though. 

Finally, he nods to himself and looks to her. “I’ll keep him safe,” he says, returning to their conversation about Barnes. 

“I know you will,” she says.

She kisses him on the cheek and has turned towards the door when she remembers the other reason she came to see Sam. “By the way,” she says, turning back to him. “If there’s an opportunity, try to run some tests on Bucky, bloodwork at least. I’d assume his immune system battles most things like Steve’s does but I want to be sure.”

Sam’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “Thought you didn’t want to go poking needles in him?”

“I don’t. But I also need to know if there’s anything we need to be concerned about.”

Sam’s mouth form’s a little ‘o’ as he understands. She knows that her, Sam and Steve are clean thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s invasive testing, and pregnancy isn’t an issue for her due to the Red Room’s procedures, but if she’s going to be intimate with Barnes more often, she’d feel better knowing if there were any concerns. If there’s also anything unnatural in his blood from the serum or anything else Hydra decided to inject him with, she wants to know, especially before Stark does. 

“It’ll ease his mind if the vials are destroyed afterwards, but if he doesn’t want to do it -”

“I’ll do it,” a sure voice says as the door swings open. Funny. She thought she’d locked it. Barnes leans against the doorframe with a smug smile but serious eyes, “but next time, you could just ask.”

Natasha ducks her head in shame. “I should’ve come straight to you.”

He shrugs dejectedly. “It’s okay. Honestly, I’ve been thinking about it too.” 

“Okay,” Sam interjects, crossing his arms. “Exactly how long have you been standing there?”

Barnes smirks. “Long enough, Soldier.”

Sam eyes him up and down, and Natasha just rolls her eyes. Hopefully by the time she returns, these two will have moved on from flirting and actually be practising their military kink. Not that she’s not amused by it, but she’d also like to have a tactical conversation without eyefucking and innuendos at some point. Knowing the new flirtatious Barnes however… 

“You about ready to go?” she asks, interrupting their intense staring contest. 

Barnes chuckles and then straightens. “Am I going somewhere?”

She asked mostly to reassure herself that he hadn’t heard the entire conversation, but it’s also a chance to bring him in the loop. “You and Sam are moving safehouses in an hour.”

He nods. “Makes sense. You guys about ready to leave then? Steve was packing…”

Natasha fights the wave of empathy that comes over her. Of course that’s why Barnes sought them out. He still finds it hard to be alone with Steve. Another problem she doesn’t know how to fix. They need alone time, and probably a good dose of therapy, but she has no time to give them and no one outside of this room she can trust with their hearts.

“Yeah, we’re just about to go,” she says. 

She pauses on her way out to drop a lingering kiss on Barnes’ lips. His eyelids flutter against her cheek and when she pulls back she sees genuine confusion flash across his eyes. He still doesn’t believe he deserves affection. Sam will put that right though, she’s sure of it. 

“I’ll see you both in a couple of days,” she says. “Be safe.”

“To you as well,” Sam replies, the details of the safehouses held tight in his hand. 


	13. Interested Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Natasha arrive in Washington.

The flight to Baltimore is six and a half hours with a short stop-over. 

Natasha tries to keep recognition to a minimum as they travel, but after the Battle of New York, they have some of the most recognisable faces in the world. It irritates her that they cannot disappear entirely but since the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. they’re low on resources, so much so that Steve doesn’t even have an alias. Using their real names (or as “real” as Natasha gets) unsettles her, but at least this way she knows for sure that they’ll have company at the other end. The only unknowns now are about which organisations, in what number, and with what agenda. It’s three more unknowns than she would have liked, but it’s enough to work with. 

Still, she doesn’t want to make things worse by involving the public, so before they left the house, she made some adjustments to their outfits. Steve is dressed in a hoody that she took right off Barnes’ back. She’d bought Barnes a handful of clothes from a service station when they first left to find Steve and they’d been bought with the exact intention of being unremarkable. Steve keeps smelling it when he thinks she can’t see him, and in return, she makes sure he can’t see her smile at the gesture. 

Steve doesn’t like being separated from his shield since the kidnapping, but she convinces him to put it in the hold - “Rogers, if anyone’s stupid enough to attack us on a plane, they deserve to die” - because she has twelve ways to sneak a knife past security. 

It’s not just the ease of carrying weapons and crafting disguises she misses with S.H.I.E.L.D. though, it’s the efficiency. She’s hasn’t had to waste time at check-in for a long time, but now it feels like there’s a line for every little thing. She nearly loses it at passport control when she thinks she’s home free but then there’s another damn line that’s moving slower than Clint with a hangover. 

Steve senses her discomfort. He pulls her close with an arm around her waist and whispers in her ear, “Relax, Nat. Nearly there.” 

“No, we’re not,” she mutters. “We’re nearly at the end of _this_ line, then there’ll be another when we board, another when we land...”

He chuckles against her temple. “If it makes you feel better, I’m not used to this either. Never even been on a commercial flight. Bucky and I took a boat a couple of times but it was nothing like this. Takes some getting used to.”

She was still in Russia in the 40s, but she knows the ferries Steve’s talking about. At least she witnessed society develop with its consumerism and technology (not to mention social practices), and Barnes got practiced at adapting to whatever time he found himself in, but for Steve, it must still feel like a dream sometimes. He has a lot of adjustments to make, and really, it’s impressive that he’s adjusted as well as he has. Ever since Peggy mentioned being “fond” of both Steve and Bucky, Natasha can’t help but wonder how much of Steve’s modern attitude is due to her intervention, or if he was always like this. She hopes to hear stories from Barnes one day about his life with Steve before the war, if they took those ferries around New York to find work or if it was just because they used to treat each other to the ocean view. 

“Were you crammed in like cattle?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Then it’s the same.”

The kid at passport control seems to have a hard time controlling his fanboying when Steve hands over his passport. It was funny the first time, but now it’s getting tiresome, and she has no idea how Steve remains so courteous. Natasha supposes she should be grateful they’re not getting the other kind of welcome.

Steve gets the window seat and his eyes don’t leave the view from the moment the wheels leave the tarmac. She wonders if he displayed this fascination the first time he flew. He must’ve been in planes plenty in the war, at least twice from the stories Peggy has told her over the years. 

Natasha lets him watch the rising sky in silence as she watches the plane for threats. There’s a businessman a couple of rows back that looks suspicious. She’ll pretend to go to the bathroom in a minute and see what he does. She forces herself to relax in the meantime, even letting herself look at the view… or, more accurately, look at Steve looking at the view.

When the seatbelt light finally blinks off, she taps Steve’s hand and whispers her plan to draw out any agents. He nods, and his shoulders straighten, ready if they attack. They won’t though, she’s certain. Even if that man is an agent, he would only be here for surveillance to make sure they’re not going to parachute out in the middle of nowhere.

She’s proven correct when she stands up and the guy’s phone comes out. If this is one of Stark’s men, she’s extremely disappointed in his standards. The agent pretends to stretch when she walks past, obviously ready to fight if she strikes. But not otherwise. No one else moves around her. It’s just him, and he’s clearly under orders to act defensively. 

She returns to her seat with the relative reassurance of knowing the game.

“All good?” Steve asks, flipping through an inflight magazine.

She likes that he never asks questions about her missions. He’ll give the orders sometimes, but after Washington, he trusts her to do her job, by whatever means necessary. He trusts her judgement in these things now. It’s flattering, but unsettling, as she has yet to trust her own judgments. She still doesn’t know if she made the right call in letting Yana go free.

“Good,” she confirms. “Though I wouldn’t go more than two rows forward if you don’t want to be recognised, there’s a kid with a Falcon toy.”

Steve smiles, though it’s tinged with sadness. He knows about Sam’s indecision then. “A kid with good taste.”

She nods sadly and rests her head on his shoulder. It’s soft and still smells like Barnes. Steve cautiously moves his arm so it’s around her shoulders. He’s still a little awkward about these things, but it’s not just that, there’s been something off-kilter between her and Steve lately. She hasn’t had much time with him since the hostage situation and most of that time was spent either methodically cutting him open or being so gentle with him like he could break. She wants their usual dynamic back - the way they work together in battle like two separate limbs of the same being - but so much has happened since they took the Triskelion that it seems impossible. Her feelings for Steve were born on the battlefield, and she’s still learning how to navigate them outside of that. 

In battle, you’d never suspect that there was a shy, awkward, unsure guy behind Captain America’s face; Steve’s an expert on the battlefield and he’s earnt the right to confidence, but what they have is still so new that it’ll take a while to get used to. She hopes she gets to see his confidence grow. She’s already seen that easy smile appear when he’s joking around with them, and so it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine that she might one day see it between kisses too. His thumb begins to rub her shoulder as he looks out of the window again, he’s not relaxing though, and after a minute she realises it’s because there’s something he’s trying to say.

“Hey,” he starts, then breaks off, looking out the window again. “Um.” He sighs and turns to face her again. “When things are… well, not back to normal, I don’t think we _do_ normal, but… safe. When things are safe. Do you…?” he trails off again, his eyes flickering anywhere but her. She tilts her head on his shoulder so she can look at him. “There was an exhibition at this gallery in New York. I didn’t get to see it before… I thought you might like to-”

When she realises what he’s trying to say, she has to suppress the urge to laugh. “Are you asking me out?” she says in surprise. 

Steve blushes and it’s all the answer she needs.

She doesn’t remember the last time she went on a date… the last time she _wanted_ to. He’s trying to bring some normalcy into this thing they have and it’s heartwarming mostly because it’s so _Steve_. She hopes that before the kidnapping, Sam and Steve managed to find time for some normalcy, she can imagine them watching a game on the couch or lazing around in the park. It’s a nice fantasy. 

She brushes a kiss against his cheek. 

His blush deepens. “I was thinking about the ice rink too but -” he chuckles “- I think Buck would love it too and Sam would probably love to watch me fall on my ass -”

She laughs. “Probably.”

“But they’d both have no patience for a gallery so…”

She reaches up to squeeze the hand on her shoulder. “I’d love to, Steve.”

It’s nice to imagine a future where the four of them would be free to spend time together like that. She’s just not as optimistic as Steve to think it’s possible, no matter how much she wants it. Even if they somehow keep hold of Barnes, she can’t imagine a day without danger. Too many people want them dead, and those that don’t will take pictures and undoubtedly sell them to those that do.

She holds this little fantasy in her head though the whole way to Baltimore. 

-

There’s an unreasonable _five_ agents dotted around the airport when they arrive. It’s past midnight and the extra people are noticeable. She doesn’t understand how it takes five agents to report on their activity - because that really is all they’re doing, _watching_ \- until she realises that at least three different organisations are present. She knew this wasn’t going to be a drama-free trip, but this really doesn’t bode well. She’ll have to make sure they’re too busy fighting each other that they can slip away… a couple of well-placed comments ought to do it. 

Steve elbows her and she halts her strategizing to help him pick up their bags from the conveyer. He’s noticed though. There’s a tension to Steve’s shoulders that tells her even he must see the woman not drinking coffee nearby. 

He shoulders their bags and leans in to whisper in her ear. “How many?”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” she says, and she really hopes that’s true.

-

Her well-placed comments have the desired effect and during the scuffle at the airport, they slip away and acquire a car. There’s probably still eyes on them, but at least they don’t have a tail. She wouldn’t have the energy to get rid of them. Steve somehow managed to get their bags out of the airport and slings them in the back of the car before she drives off. 

“This is crazy,” Steve mutters.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you would’ve stayed at home.”

She glances across at him but he can’t keep her gaze. He breaks it with a sigh and looks out of the window as the city lights blur past them. “We should be able to pay our respects without getting shot at,” he whispers. “It’s not right.”

“No, it’s not.” 

“They really want him, don’t they?” It’s such a strange question from Steve that it takes her a while to answer. They both know everyone wants to apprehend Barnes. Steve’s not asking because he doesn’t know, he’s asking like a child asks a parent, for reassurance that it’s going to be okay. 

She can’t do that though. “Yes,” she says. 

Steve tries a couple of sentences, she wonders if one of them is “why?” and if he realised he didn’t want to know the answer. He’s still looking out of the window when he admits in a quiet voice, “I only just got him back. I’m not letting them take him away again.”

“I know,” she says. “We won’t let them. The only way James is leaving us is if he makes the choice to leave.” It’s not a promise, but it’s as close as she can get. 

He catches her eye in the reflection and nods. His gaze is hard as stone.

-

When they finally arrive at the hotel in Washington, Natasha’s not at all surprised to see Melinda May is in the lobby. It looks like S.H.I.E.L.D. does have an interest after all but were simply waiting to play their cards right. May doesn’t bother to move, just looks over the glossy magazine she’s pretending to read and gives Natasha the raised eyebrow that means Natasha’s being summoned. 

Natasha sighs and presses the room key into Steve’s hands. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Steve’s looks over Natasha’s shoulder to where May is sitting. 

“Just business right?” he asks, tight-lipped.

“Just business.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Probably because of the other two armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents nearby, also from Coulson’s team if her intel is correct. The lobby is deserted except for them and the man behind the desk. If Natasha didn’t know Coulson, she’d be worried, but she does. If anything, it’s comforting, because if S.H.I.E.L.D. are here, then it means they’ve probably cleared the hotel of anyone else.

“Scout out the room, check for bugs, Hydra hiding in the closets, the usual,” she says with a smirk. “I’ll be up in no time.”

He nods, but he hasn’t taken his eyes from May. “Don’t piss her off,” he says, finally looking back to Natasha. 

She waits until he’s cleared the lobby before she turns and walks towards May, casually taking the seat opposite her. “I’m glad Coulson sent you, at least.”

May puts down the magazine. “Happy to see you too, Romanoff. Thank you for being cooperative.”

“For now,” Natasha says, eyeing the agent behind her who definitely has an ICER pointed at her. At least they’re not shooting to kill, and as far as Natasha’s acquaintances go, that’s bordering on friendly. “Depends what Coulson wants.”

“Hopefully what you want too,” May says. “Intel.”

“I’m surprised you’ve stopped running after Hydra long enough to take interest.”

“He’s on the Index which makes him our responsibility. And in case you’d forgotten, the Winter Soldier _is_ Hydra.”

Natasha cringes instinctively, and lets it show because she knows it will help her defence. She has not thought of Barnes as the Winter Soldier in a long time.

“Or is that no longer the case?” May asks.

“Barnes has broken his programming,” Natasha explains, “but he needs time to become stable. He’s not a threat, May, but you understand why I need to protect him.”

“He’s an asset, for anyone. If what you say is right then we don’t want Hydra to take hold of him again, but we also need all the information the Winter-” May breaks at Natasha’s stare, “ _Barnes_ ,” she rectifies with exaggeration, “can provide.”

“His memories are still patchy and some are falsified, even if he could give you intel about Hydra, I doubt any of it would be reliable, or even relevant.”

“Maybe not, but he could at least fill a few gaps for us. We have at least twelve assassinations that are credited to him that need confirming, any locations he can give - even if they’re forty years out of date - are worth investigating, we also need to understand exactly what the bionic arm is capable of so we can update the Index and… between you and me, the smallest piece of intel about Hydra could help us win this. We need whatever he’s got.”

Natasha understands, she really does. Hydra need to be destroyed, once and for all, and the remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D. consist of about twelve people right now; they need all the help they can get. “Help us keep other interested parties off our backs while we’re in D.C., and I’ll see if I can get you your intel.”

“That’s not how this works,” May says, leaning in closer in a way that probably intimidates most people. “It’s sensitive information. It needs to come directly from him, take place in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, and go through a lie-detector. At least.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

Natasha hears an ICER click to life.

“That would be unwise.”

“I’m not his handler, May. I can’t - I _won’t_ \- force him to do anything. He wants to take down Hydra, trust me on that, but he’s also not very trusting. Convincing him to be manhandled onto a heavily armed plane and subjected to a series of tests is going to be a hard sell. So, I’ll present him with your offer with the added condition that at least one member of my team is present for the duration he’s with you, but that’s the best I can do.”

May cocks her eyebrow. “Your team? You - Black Widow - have a _team_?”

She won’t take the bait. “Do we have a deal or not?”

May is silent for a moment, but her eyes glance towards her right. An earpiece. But from May’s slight tells, Natasha knows the words are coming from someone she respects, someone senior... Phil Coulson has been listening the whole time. Natasha’s not even surprised, just insulted he didn’t take the opportunity to come himself. 

May gives a minute nod. “We have a deal.”

The ICER is lowered and Natasha doesn’t need any further encouragement. She stands up to leave. “Nice seeing you, May. Next time Coulson lets you have a day off, we should go to the gym and settle that rumour.”

“You mean the one where I would kick your ass in a fight?”

“Thought it was the other way around,” Natasha smirks.

She leaves the agents debating in the lobby and takes the elevator up to their floor. At least S.H.I.E.L.D. are handled, and hopefully taking Hydra with them. You never know, there might even be a chance of a nice quiet evening.

The elevator doors slides open and she sees Steve only a few feet away, crouched between three unconscious bodies in the hallway. His shield is slung over his back and he looks up as he finishes handcuffing the last man. Maybe not a quiet evening after all.

“About time,” Steve says, straightening, and then stepping over a body towards Natasha.

She shrugs. “Looks like you had it under control.” 

He grins, and this is the smile she missed, the one after a battle when the endorphins are running through his body and he just looks so damn grateful for surviving it. Makes you wonder just how many times he got beat up as a kid, if he’s still surprised by winning. 

“Sure,” Steve says. “Nothing like a nice little homecoming present.”

“Not sure if I’d call that a present,” she smirks. She uses her boot to roll one of the men over. She doesn’t recognise any of them, but they’re Hydra, no doubt about it. “I’ll ask May to pick up the trash on her way out.”

He huffs in amusement. She’s missed the easy banter between them on assignments, and there’s something about a post-battle Steve Rogers that does something to her. His cockiness maybe, or the warm glow in his cheeks, or the way his broad chest expands as he catches his breath… or maybe she just has a type. (She definitely has a type). 

She must be staring because Steve raises his eyebrow at her and there’s something in the tilt of it and the amusement in his eyes that tells her he knows exactly where her mind went. 

“Oh, shut up,” she jokes and pulls him down into a kiss before he can argue. He laughs against her lips, but then she pushes her tongue past his lips until he’s breathless for a different reason. 

She’s a little proud of the dazed look in his eyes when she pulls back. She lets him have a moment to collect himself as she strokes her thumb against his cheek. 

She drops her hand and looks past him to the unconscious agents; there’s scuff marks on the wallpaper and a skewed picture frame… he must have caused a racket even if she couldn’t hear it five floors below. “Did you draw much attention?”

“Uh,” he says, before his brain must click back to life. “No. Floor seems pretty empty.” Before she can think it, he’s shaking his head, “Not all occupied by Hydra. I did see a couple of curious heads but way further down the hall. Do you think Tony might also - ?”

“No,” she says. “He won’t have people here. Only bugs, if anything. Pepper won’t let him ambush us before the funeral.”

“You seem pretty sure of that.” He states it, not questioning, but curious nonetheless. He believes her, but he also wants to know her reasoning.

“Personal experience,” she summarises. “She only has to remind him what it was like at his parents funeral. There was as much security as there was media. Tony loves the camera but he hated them that day. He knows what it’s like to be hounded while grieving, and as much as he wants Barnes, he’ll wait until he can do it in private.”

Steve nods.

Natasha continues, “He’ll give us a day or two. Then he’ll come after us with all he has. Hydra has no such concerns for welfare, and since Hydra were here, S.H.I.E.L.D. had to come.”

“Hydra only sent three agents.” 

“Not enough for an ambush, I agree,” Natasha says. “I imagine their plan was to wait until we were asleep.”

Steve grimaces. “Yeah, that makes sense… I don’t think they intended for a fight. They didn’t have time to call for back up though.”

“Of course they didn’t,” she says and tries to suppress her smirk but he catches her at it and gives a self-deprecating laugh. 

“Call S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he orders, still smiling. “I’ll scout out the rest of the floor and find a clean room we can stay in.”


	14. There's Worse Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

Call her paranoid, but it’s just another word for being a spy. Natasha rigs their hotel room with enough detectors that even Barnes would have a tough time sneaking past them. 

Steve’s sat on the bed, fidgeting, a disposable cell in his hands. He wants to check-in with the others, she knows, but they can’t risk contacting them. The problem is, the longer she leaves him to stew, the more anxious he’s going to get. She’s also acutely aware that his mourning period was interrupted by a cliff, a kidnapping, and a surprise Bucky Barnes. 

“You okay?” she asks, as she peers out from their hotel room window. 

“Yeah,” he says, but then he sighs and she hears the bed springs creak as he flops back against the sheets. She lets the window curtain fall back into place and looks to him instead.

Steve is staring up at the ceiling, the cell phone still clutched in his hands. 

She lets him have his silence for a minute in case he wants to open a conversation, but he doesn’t offer anything. There’s nothing more for her to do, and she’s exhausted, so she kicks off her shoes and lies on top of the covers with him. She leaves plenty of space between them and casually mirrors his position, arms behind her head, ankles crossed. He’ll talk if he wants to talk, or he’ll close the space if he doesn’t, and he’ll sleep if he wants neither of those things. 

She waits, and then, after five minutes, he sighs again. 

“I never expected to live for very long,” he admits. He turns his head to look across the pillows at her. “I was always sick as a kid, getting beat up, every time I got pneumonia I thought… _this is it. This time I’m not gonna make it._ ” He looks away again and swallows. “Even when I got the serum, I was going to war. No one expects to come back from war. And in a way-” he huffs a laugh “- I never really did. The point is.... other than Bucky, I’ve outlived everyone I knew, and even Bucky’s… changed. So I guess -” he shrugs “- I was hoping Peggy would be my constant for a while longer, as selfish as that is.”

“Rogers, don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, turning to face him, “but you could _never_ be selfish. Seriously. I don’t believe it. Name one thing you’ve done in the last week that wasn’t for someone else.”

He bites his lip, then turns his head on the pillow towards her. “I kissed you,” he whispers.

She blushes under his gaze. She’s not one to easily blush but Steve has this way of looking at people… always so earnest, and open, and she can’t handle it. She breaks the gaze. “Anyway,” she says, “it’s natural to want stability, and in a life like ours, that craving often falls to people, not a place.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs. He catches her eyes once more before smiling and turning his eyes back to the stucco ceiling. “I know Bucky’s different but… I _am_ happy he’s back. That we found each other again.”

“Have you told him that?”

“Not in as many words, but I will,” he says determinedly. “I haven’t been very open with him, I know that, but he needs to know that I… that I am grateful. Even if I don’t act like it. Honestly, Natasha, sometimes I’m just too scared to talk to him; I’m afraid every time that it will be the Winter Soldier talking back.”

Natasha understands, she remembers the cold press of metal against her throat, the sudden change between personalities that she knows Barnes is capable of. But for Steve it must be ten times worse, because he knows the old Barnes, and must ache every time he sees glimpses of him, only to be hidden away again. “The only way that will get better, is with time,” she advises.

“And I guess I got plenty of that, right? But he might not.” Steve swears under his breath and it’s such an unusual sound that Natasha is immediately set on edge. One of his hands has moved from behind his head to clench in mid-air beside him. “I always do this,” he says angrily. “I always wait too long to say -” He’s blinking back tears and she knows he’s thinking of Peggy. 

“So don’t,” she says firmly. 

His head snaps to hers. There’s still tears in his eyes, but he doesn’t break her gaze, even when she places her hand carefully over his fist. 

“We’ve got an unpredictable life, Rogers. And a lot to fear. Don’t let love be one of those things. Don’t be scared to try and find happiness again.”

She can tell he’s thinking about it from the way his jaw clenches and his eyes flicker. Finally, they settle in a firm resolve. “You say that like you’re not scared.”

Natasha gives a one-armed shrug. “There’s worse things than falling in love with you.”

He chuckles and ducks his head, presumably to hide to blush on his cheeks. “That’s… surprisingly sweet.”

“Get used to it, Rogers. We’re gonna romance the fuck out of you.”

He laughs again, and tugs her closer to press his lips briefly against hers. He’s still chuckling when he pulls away and it’s easy to smile back up at him. His fingers are playing with her hair and his laughter is replaced with contemplation. _Did he ever touch Peggy like this? Was that the last time?_ He peppers her face with tiny kisses and then takes her bottom lip purposefully between his, letting the kiss linger.

“I do love you,” he tells her, and his eyes flicker up to meet hers, like he’s scared she’ll run away at that, but she won’t run from him, not today at least. There’s an excited twist of muscles in her stomach at the declaration. 

She wants to reply, but there’s something else, something more important that he needs to know. “And I trust you.” 

His sharp inhale is enough to let her know that he got the meaning. She doesn’t just mean that she trusts him to love her. No. Somewhere along the lines, she learnt to trust him. Period. And that is far scarier than love. 

He leaves a firm kiss on her forehead, and she pretends she doesn’t feel the moisture of his tears. “I’m glad you’re here, Natasha. I’m always glad you’re here.”

Not telling her to stay, she notices, but telling her how much it means to him when she does. She doesn’t deserve such a good man, but she doubts anyone does.

He rests his forehead against hers, his thumb stroking her shoulder absently. The tension is so thick between them. She remembers the tingle of her lips from their intense kiss yesterday, and nothing else has come close since. She craves that closeness again. She feels heat pooling between her legs. She wants to know what he would feel like inside her. She wants him to press her into the mattress and make her scream until she’s hoarse. But tonight, it needs to be about what Steve needs, and she knows, if he asked, she’d sleep fully clothed on the damn floor.

“What do you want?” she whispers.

Their lips are so close she can feel his quick breath over her skin. “Don’t want to wait.” He shifts position until she can feel his semi-hardness pressed against her, she bites her lip, silencing the moan that wants to escape, but he doesn’t move further until she opens her eyes again. He’s waiting for her permission. 

“So don’t,” she gasps, and then she grabs his face and pulls him into a searing kiss. 

He moans into it, already pushing his tongue past her lips. She doesn’t waste time, immediately pulling him on top of her, and then pulling further, until he’s pressed firmly against her body and she can feel the heat between them. The kiss is passionate, but deliberate. She wonders if Steve’s capable of messy lovemaking. If she’ll one day get to witness him so debauched that he can’t even move his lips to form a kiss. But right now, he’s treating kissing like an art form, using his hands to tilt her head and his tongue to caress the furthest corners of her mouth, and it’s so good she lets him dictate it. 

She makes use of her hands to grab his ass, sneak under his shirt, rake through his hair - he sighs at that one, and she makes a mental note to do that more often. When he breaks away, it’s only to trail kisses across her cheek and collarbone. She whimpers when he starts on her neck. Every brush of lips go straight between her legs. He groans and takes her lips again. 

His abs contract beneath her hands as she caresses his chest. She rubs her thumb over a pert nipple and he gasps with the sensation. She does it again until he seems to get the hint and straightens up to throw his t-shirt into some darkened corner of the room. She’s awarded with the incredible view of his naked chest, but instead of returning to her lips, he instead leans down to where her own tee is riding up and traces the edge of her jeans with his thumb. 

Her breath catches in her throat as he leans down further and kisses along her stomach, exposing more of it as he goes, pushing up the fabric of her tee until the bottom of her bra is exposed. His lips run across the edge of the bra and it’s surprisingly erotic. 

She groans, unable to take the teasing, and playfully pushes his face away as she leans up to dispose of the top and bra in one go. He’s looking at her mesmerised when she looks back at him, they’re now both sitting on the sheets, naked from the waist up, his thighs bracketing hers. His hand shakily comes to her waist and then trails up her side. They both watch as his hand comes to cup her breast, and then slowly moves his thumb across the nub. She bites her lip on a moan. 

“Natasha,” he sighs. He buries his face in her neck and kisses her there, gently pushing her back against the covers, his hand not leaving her breast the whole time. 

After that, it’s like Steve can’t decide what to focus on. It’s like he’s trying to kiss every part of her, and he won’t be hurried in his exploring, he keeps finding little places that make her breath catch and her thighs clench. She loves Sam and James, loves what they do with her, but this is the first time in a long time that sex has really felt like _lovemaking_. It makes her knees weak like a romantic heroine, and it should make her feel uncomfortable, but it’s so _Steve_ that it makes her heart ache. 

Eventually, she gets them both out of their jeans, and the first press of their groins together with only thin cotton between them makes her gasp. It seems to ignite something in Steve too, his kisses turning dirtier, his hands more rushed. 

He kisses down her stomach again but this time he doesn’t stop, he pulls down her panties and before she can even process it, he’s placing his lips against her. She forgot how good it can feel to have a good kisser make love to you like this. He’s relentless, and focused, and it’s not long until her fingers are in his hair, and he’s making those delicious little sighs again but this time she can _feel_ every single one of them.

“Steve,” she mutters. She bites back on all the sentiments that want to fall from her lips, brought to the surface by his ministrations. She could say them all. 

She can feel her release building, and as if he senses it, he changes his tactic, suddenly thrusting two fingers inside her. She arches off the bed as she’s overcome with pleasure, and grips his hair until she can see clearly again. 

When she comes to, she’s not surprised to see him watching her with wonder. He places a soft kiss on the dip of her hipbone and then she’s tugging him up for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. Of course Steve is a generous lover. She wonders if he always gives his partners pleasure before he indulges in his own, and she hopes, if that’s the case, that Sam has gotten his own back at least once. 

Finally, she peels off the last layer between them, helping Steve kick his underwear off the bed. He frames her head with his hands, kissing her deeply again, and there’s something in the gesture that reminds her of their other lovers… the one thing they all have in common when they’re intimate, is the way they cling to her like she might disappear. Now Steve is over her again, there’s not an inch between them, their bodies are pressed so tightly together from top to toe. This is what he needs, she realises, to be as close as physically possible, and luckily for her, it’s what she craves too. 

Steve’s nudging at her entrance and her heart picks up its pace. Sam may be wide, and Barnes long, but Steve… Steve is both. She’s prepared for it to hurt, so she’s amazed when he breeches her and the stretch feels good. He sinks in slowly, giving her time to adjust, and she sighs through the whole push. It feels perfect. 

His head rests against hers. She lets herself get used to the feel of being so full, and doesn’t realise she’s been speaking out loud until her litany of “perfect” reaches her own ears. Steve’s kissing her neck again, not wanting to hurry her, but she can feel the tension in his back. She opens her legs as wide as possible and hooks her ankles around him, pushing him further in. 

“Fuck,” she swears as the movement causes him to press against a good place. She throws her head back, riding the sensation. “Fuck me.”

“S’what I was trying to do,” he mutters. 

It takes her a second to realise what he just said and another second to remind herself that yeah, Steve Rogers, can be one cheesy son of a bitch. She breathes out a chuckle. “Are you sassing me, Rogers?”

He laughs against her neck, but from the sounds of it, he’s struggling to be coherent too. “Problem?”

“Fuck, no,” she says. She squeezes her walls around him and it has the desired effect of a frustrated little moan and rock of his hips that make her moan in tandem. 

There’s not much holding back after that. He stays so close that they share breath and the heat builds until it’s stifling but intoxicating. He never stops kissing her, even as his hips begin to lose rhythm. She clutches to him as hard as he holds her and gives to him as good as he is giving. They must both be a sweaty, writhing mess, but she doesn’t want to be even a breath further away. Between kisses, he whispers his love for her, and sometime after her second climax, he loses his resolve, and pounds into her desperately until his back tenses and his face screws up in pleasure. 

She’s not surprised when tears fall from his eyes. He collapses against her, and she holds him in her arms as he wilts inside her, and she kisses away the salty hot tears from his face. 

They must fall asleep like that, atop the covers, Steve cradled in her arms, because she is awoken sometime later by a cool breeze and a heavy weight on her chest. Carefully, she extracts herself and somehow manages to coax her exhausted lover under the covers with her. He moves back towards her, like a flower seeking light, and curls up against her. 

Her heart swells with the sight, and presses her lips against his temple as her eyes flutter close once more.


	15. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day arrives, and tension rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how vague can I keep making these chapter summaries, honestly

Natasha’s job today is to allow Steve to grieve. She tricks herself into handling Peggy Carter’s funeral like a mission; protect Steve, divert interest, give away no secrets. It’s easier that way. 

Steve seems to understand without her even explaining it.

She didn’t stay with him for the whole night. When the sun rose, she could see the ghost of Peggy between them on the sheets, and she couldn’t do it. She keeps a respectful distance while they prepare. He puts on his black suit and she puts some breakfast in front of him, but she doesn’t comment when only a corner of the toast is missing at the end. 

She wears a simple black dress, and ties a braid around her wrist. Peggy was making them once when Natasha visited, supposedly for some children, but that didn’t stop her from spinning Natasha a black, red and blue one while they were talking. Natasha didn’t realise it had made the whole journey until she found it in the pocket of her grey hoodie when they did laundry yesterday, and then she felt like she had to take it. 

She looks up to find Steve watching her. “I didn’t know you had that.”

She shrugs, and explains where it came from.

He steps closer and reaches out his hand with a raised eyebrow. She accepts and lets him raise her wrist in his hands. His fingertip comes to trace underneath the braid, just over her pulse point. It makes her breath catch, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Blue,” he states, “that’s not very you.” 

It makes her smile, because she hopes to spend many mornings walking around the house in Steve’s blue wardrobe and hopes it isn’t totally unflattering, but also, Peggy totally knew what she was doing. Peggy _winked_ when she handed it over, for fuck’s sake. There’s many responses to Steve’s observation, but only one that matters today, “It was her favourite color,” Natasha says.

He nods sadly. 

“Well,” she says with a smirk. “That, and red.” 

He nudges her playfully but his smile isn’t even fully formed before it’s dropped. “Have I mentioned how glad I am that you’re here?”

“Once or twice. And we haven’t even met Stark yet.”

He groans. “Is it still bad form to punch someone at a funeral?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s always bad form,” she says, as she reaches up to adjust his tie. “Why? Common problem for you?” 

“More than you’d think,” he says. “Though now I think about it… it only ever happened when Bucky was there.” Steve huffs a laugh. “He did actually throw a punch once… no - ” his frown crinkles “- twice.” 

She laughs and lets her hands rest on his shoulders. “Why am I not surprised?” 

His eyes glaze over again. 

“I promise, as soon as you want to leave, we can. I’ll contact Sam. We can be back with them this afternoon at a push. Or, we can stay for as long as you need. We’re on your schedule.”

“No, we’re not,” he says with a sad smile. 

And it’s true; they both know, in reality, that they cannot loiter. 

The skies are overcast that afternoon as they make their way to the church. It’s a large turnout, which doesn’t surprise her, but it does unsettle her that she can’t easily spot weapons in the sea of black. It will be even worse when they’re inside. 

Peggy’s family are led by Sharon Carter, she’s not the eldest of the group, but it makes sense as a bridge between Peggy’s personal and professional life. The family wait to greet people outside the church but with enough armed officers nearby to make Natasha uneasy.

“I have no idea what I should say, I didn’t have the chance to meet most of them,” Steve side-whispers to Natasha as they approach, but he needn’t have worried because as soon as Sharon spots them, she breaks away from her family members to embrace Steve.

Steve closes his eyes and holds her tightly. They’re whispering something that she can’t hear. Natasha turns away and gives her condolences to the rest of the family, some of whom she’s met in person, others she knows only from photographs, but they all seem to stand with the strength of Agent Carter in their bones. 

When she turns back to Sharon and Steve, there’s tears in both of their eyes. Before she knows it, Sharon is breaking away from Steve and instead pulling Natasha into a hug. Natasha squeezes gently in comfort. She knew Sharon from S.H.I.E.L.D., but she didn’t feel like she actually _knew_ her until they’d both spent an afternoon with Peggy. 

“I know what’s going on,” Sharon whispers. “I appreciate you being here nonetheless.”

Natasha nods as she pulls away. “I wish I could be seeing you under better circumstances, Sharon.”

“Me too. Assuming you make it out of this unscathed, we should catch up.”

“I’d like that.”

Tactically, they should sit at the back of the church, but she can’t ask that of Steve. Instead, he sits a couple of rows back. She tries to convince herself that she has S.H.I.E.L.D. on her side now, that there’s one agent directly behind them, one at the end of the row, and one hovering in the doorway. The numbers aren’t bad, but it’s not enough to make her relax.

The church is filling up quickly so Natasha only sees Clint when he slides up next to them. “Hey stranger,” he says. 

Clint and Steve do that manly nod-greeting thing that always baffles her. 

“You made it,” she says.

“Just about, yeah,” he says, turning the fresh bruises on his cheek into the shadows under the guise of looking around the church. She wonders who exactly got on the wrong side of Clint this time. Or _what_. It’s not like he has a good record with inanimate objects either. 

“How’s Kate?”

His jaw sets. “Away.”

“And Lucky?”

“Allergic to Chinese food.” He grunts. “Wuss.”

Steve shuffles beside her. “I’m going to -” he nods towards the covered coffin at the front of the church. 

She nods and signals for one of Coulson’s men to accompany him. 

When Steve is out of earshot, but definitely not eyeshot, she whispers to Clint, “I need a favour.” 

“Another one? Jesus, Nat, you’re stacking them up right now like dominoes, by the end of this you’re gonna owe me a new apartment complex. And pizza. And a regular subscription to Netflix while you’re at it.” 

“It’s for Sam.”

“Falcon? What’s got his wings in a twist?” 

Natasha watches as Steve’s hand hovers above the closed coffin. 

“He just needs to talk to someone. I think you could help.” She breaks her eyes from Steve momentarily to flicker across to Clint. “Come back with us and I’ll get you whatever subscription service you want.” 

“Including to Natasha Quarterly?” 

Natasha swallows her guilt. She knows she hasn’t been fair to Clint lately. Their entanglements have become pretty innocent lately - their relationship has changed over time, and his aging is only a factor - but beneath everything, he is her best friend, and he deserves to be kept in the loop. More than that, she wants him to be. “Even that.”

Clint crosses his arms and huffs. 

Steve has not yet moved from his place by the coffin. 

Clint huffs again. “Lucky for you, I have business that way.” 

He doesn’t, but she appreciates the lie more than she’d appreciate the truth. She puts her hand on his knee and squeezes it. “Thank you.” 

She jumps when a familiar voice sounds from over her shoulder: “Well, isn’t this intimate.” 

Natasha swears at herself, she’d been so occupied watching Steve that she hadn’t noticed Tony Stark sneak up behind her. She takes her hand away from Clint and clenches it at her side.

“Tony,” she greets stonily.

She turns around to see a stressed-looking Pepper by his side, and Rhodes in the vicinity, attempting to not look involved. She exchanges a small smile with Pepper and stands to her feet, Clint rising beside her. 

“I’m surprised you came,” Tony says, “thought you’d have your hands full with your recent… entanglements.”

“I came for Steve.”

Tony’s eyes flicker towards the front of the church, she doesn’t need to follow his eyes to know what he’s looking at. For a minute, it looks like he might back off, but then his jaw clenches and his eyes return to her.

“Fine. Let’s be blunt. You have the Winter Soldier. I want him.”

“I don’t have the Winter Soldier,” Natasha says.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Oh, my mistake, you have _Sergeant Barnes_ ,” he says with disdain. “I want him.”

“Why?”

Tony barks a laugh. Pepper looks torn. Natasha notices that Rhodes has taken a firm position the other side of Stark. “Why?” Tony exclaims mockingly, loud enough to turn a few heads. 

“Tony - ” Pepper tries, but he shakes off her arm. 

His face hardens. “He has killed countless people - ”

“ _The Winter Soldier_ has killed countless people,” Natasha corrects. “Barnes was brainwashed. He had no control over the things he did.”

“He still did them,” Tony bites.

“I also did unspeakable things under orders, are you going to take me too?”

It seems to make Tony momentarily speechless. She feels the strong presence of Clint next to her, probably ready to throw a punch if Tony’s answer doesn’t suit him. She hears Steve step up on her other side. Between their trios, there’s a long wooden pew, but it wouldn’t stop either side, she knows. 

Pepper reaches for Tony’s arm again, and this time he doesn’t shrug it off. “This isn’t the place, Tony.”

Tony looks across at Steve before nodding to himself. “Fine. But you’re housing a dangerous criminal, Romanoff. If he doesn’t hand himself over, you can expect me to come-a-knocking.” He’s almost gone when he turns around and adds, “with guns. If that wasn’t clear.” 

Natasha stands her ground until he and his entourage have moved a couple of rows back. She feels Steve’s hand slip into hers and give it a squeeze. It’s more grounding than it has any right to be.

Clint whistles. “What a dick.”

She’s inclined to agree but she also knows that Tony’s only doing what he thinks is best. 

Steve beats her to it. “He’s under a lot of pressure,” he states. 

“So’s the President,” Clint jokes, “doesn’t mean he starts issuing death threats.”

“That wasn’t a death threat,” Natasha sighs, turning to sit back in her seat. The others follow suit. “That was an abduction-with-possible-casualties threat.”

Clint throws his arms up. “Because that’s _so_ much better,” he says sarcastically, and then mutters, “I need to get some normal fucking friends.”

The family file in from the back of church and behind them trails the silence. By the time the priest has taken his place at the lectern, the church is full to standing and not a whisper can be heard. 

Steve is stoic throughout, and she wonders how much is his natural stubbornness, and how much is a front. He makes it to Sharon’s eulogy before the tears come, but even then they are silent. They fall down his face, his head up and his eyes forward. She slips her hand into his but there’s no sign that he’s acknowledged it. He’s lost in his memories, but she’ll be his anchor for when he comes back. 

He’s still out of it when he rises to carry to coffin with the rest of the pallbearers. He moves systematically. She watches him walk past, his eyes glazed straight ahead, though his tears have since dried. Most of the procession head to the reception, but she follows Steve to the gravesite with a few other grievers, mostly family, some colleagues. And Nick Fury hiding in the bushes, of course. She can’t blame him. She shouldn’t be here either.

She takes Steve’s hand again when he steps back and they watch the body being lowered to the ground. There’s still men watching their every move but right now she only cares about one man’s movements and that’s the twitch of Steve’s fingers in hers. He grasps her hand firmly and doesn’t let go. 

Steve becomes more alert after that, and she loathes to admit it, but she’s not sure if they would’ve made it out of the city unscathed without his help. 

Although they’ve been given a couple of days of leave from Stark (in theory), and S.H.I.E.L.D. are meant to be taking care of Hydra, the tail of cars behind them indicate that plenty of people still want eyes on them. So while Steve drives dangerously, she leans out of the window with Steve’s shield, shooting the car tires of anyone stupid enough to follow at close-range, and Clint sits in the back, checking for trackers in their clothes and belongings. The car is “borrowed” so no worries there, but their belongings were left at the hotel during the funeral and it’s no surprise that Clint finds a grand total of eleven trackers scattered throughout them. He throws them out the window, laughing with glee every time they hit a moving target. 

“We oughta swap jobs, Barton,” she jokes as she lowers Steve’s shield and drops it in the passenger seat. She hops across Steve’s lap to shoot out the other window. 

Steve adjusts below her so he’s looking out the front window between her legs as he swerves into a side street and her bullet hits its target.

“Left my bow at home,” Clint says, flinging another tracker out the window. “I didn’t think I’d need it at a fucking _funeral_.” 

“I asked you to come,” Natasha argues back. “You should have expected it.” 

“Nat,” he says, “don’t take this the wrong way, but when that’s the assumption you expect people to make - ”

“Hate to interrupt,” Steve says, “but now seems like a good time to switch cars.”

He’s driven into a large underground parking lot just as they’ve lost their tail. Oh, _Steve_. She grabs his face and kisses him on the cheek in gratitude, and then she’s climbing off his lap and picking the lock of the car opposite as the guys grab the gear. 

But Clint is still arguing, naturally. “So every time you call me I should assume it means I’m going to be shot at in the not-too-distant future?” he asks, as she unlocks the car. He throws the gear in the back and slides in after it. 

Steve takes the wheel again so she grabs the passenger side. The tires screech as Steve pulls the car out of the garage as fast as it will go. She keeps peering out the windows as she carries on bickering with Clint, but it looks like that might have lost the guys on the road at least. 

“No,” she replies, “I’m saying it’s good to be prepared.”

“Being ‘prepared’ for most people means packing an extra pair of socks, not bringing an arsenal in case of a car chase.”

“And did you pack an extra pair of socks?”

Clint groans. “Well, no…”

Steve slows down at some traffic lights. They need to blend in now, and she didn’t even need to tell him. She wonders at what point he learnt how to be a spy. Was it in trying to track down Barnes? Or before that? 

Steve asks, “Are you guys always like this?”

“Yes,” they answer in unison. 

She catches Clint’s eye and for a minute she lets the affection well up before she looks away and they both huff in laughter. She sees Steve shake his head in amusement out the corner of her eye. She smiles at the sight and relaxes into her seat, watching Steve until he turns to look at her with a sheepish expression. He looks away when he has to drive off. Natasha finally lets herself store the gun in the glove compartment. 

“Seriously though,” Clint says, propping his elbows on their seats and leaning between them, “who packs extra socks?”

Natasha laughs, immediately knowing the answer, but it’s only proven when Steve’s cheeks turn a wonderful shade of red. 

She laughs as Clint splutters and Steve tries to defend himself, but a chime from her phone silences their bickering. 

“Is it them?” Steve asks in a hurry, eyes flickering to and from the road.

She opens the message before she lets herself relax. She had texted Sam the codeword on the cell phone she’d acquired as soon as she got it, but during their car chase, she hadn’t had time to worry about the delay. Steve obviously had though. She breathes a sigh of relief when the text is just the letter that she asked for, and nothing else that might signal danger. “Yeah,” she says. “We’ve got a location.”

They make it to the safehouse without incident, unless you count everything Clint says and does as an “incident,” but after this many years, she doesn’t anymore. Sam chose the safehouse closest to Baltimore, about three hours west of the city, which was risky, but she’s thankful for it now. She’s exhausted, so she can only imagine how Steve feels. 

It’s one of the largests of her safehouses. It used to belong to a contact before they passed away, she never thought she’d need such a large house, but the five of them would be a tight fit anywhere else. It’s a modern place, two-stories, and in a place used mostly by commuters so there isn’t the risk of nosy neighbours that they’d had in the last safehouse. 

She unlocks the door to find two guns pointed at her face. She raises her hands but the guns are already being lowered. 

“I heard three sets of footsteps,” Barnes says as way of explanation, and he half-shrugs as if in apology, but he also hasn’t actually put the gun down. It’s hovering, like he can’t decide. 

Natasha takes one look at Sam and Barnes’ rumpled clothing and has a feeling that if Barnes hadn’t heard Clint’s footsteps they would have had a much warmer welcome. 

She steps to the side so that Barnes can see Clint between her and Steve. “James, I want you to meet Clint, he’s an old friend of mine.”

Barnes’ eyes flicker down to her arrow necklace. “The complication,” he whispers. “Good to meet you,” he says louder, and to Natasha’s surprise, holds out his hand to Clint.

Clint raises an eyebrow but takes the offered hand and then introduces himself to Sam. 

Steve moves the duffle bag on his shoulder. “I’m going to crash, if that’s - ”

Natasha puts her hand on his shoulder. “Of course.” 

She watches as he embraces Sam and kisses his cheek. “I’m glad you’re - ” Steve begins to say.

“Yeah, me too,” Sam says. 

Steve leaves Sam reluctantly and turns to Barnes. He pauses, like there’s a difference between what he wants to do and what he thinks he should do. They watch each other for a moment before Steve steps back and shuffles away to find the bedrooms.

Barnes stares after him.

Clint clears his throat and closes the door behind them all, placing the bags by the door. 

“I’m going to -” Barnes says, pointing to where Steve disappeared.

Natasha’s momentarily speechless. When she left, Barnes couldn’t decide what to watch on TV without a panic attack, but now he decides to go after Steve without even seeking their approval. There’s probably a smile on her face as she watches him leave. He’s nearly out of sight when he turns round and runs back towards them. She’s about to ask him what’s wrong, because there’s nothing obvious in his body language that signals trouble, but then her arms are full of him and he’s squeezing her tight. 

“Hey,” she whispers against his ear in surprise. 

“I was worried about you,” he says, and it punches her straight in the gut. She knows what it means for him to admit dependence like that. 

She rests her forehead on his shoulder and pulls him in while she tries to center herself. She focuses on her breathing, tries to blink back her tears, but she’s tired, and she doesn’t have the energy to push it away. “I’m happy to be home,” she whispers back and clutches at him. It is home, she knows that now, home is where the hurt is, but she knows why that is. Home is wherever these assholes are. 

Barnes is wiping at his face with his long sleeves by the time he pulls away. “I’m still working on, you know, but I… wanted to tell you. Another truth,” he says, with an embarrassed smile. 

“I appreciate it,” she says. She could say so much more, but Clint is still awkwardly kicking the bags by the door and now is not the time. “Now, go to Steve.”

Barnes smiles and kisses her softly before picking up Steve’s shield and walking towards the bedrooms. 

Clint blows out air through his teeth. “Okay, I’m gonna get a beer. Which way’s the kitchen?”

Natasha and Sam point in unison to the first open door on the left. When Clint disappears, Natasha jumps into Sam’s open arms. He grunts at the impact but embraces her tightly. There’s something about the familiar bulk of muscle and his smell that makes her melt into it. “I missed you,” she said. “Have you been safe?”

“Have _I_ been safe?” Sam scoffs. “I’m not the one that smells like gunpowder.” 

“It was a precaution,” she brushes off. She pulls back to smile up at him, then, unable to resist, stands on her tiptoes to kiss him. 

“Your idea of precaution always has me worried,” he mumbles against her lips. 

She playfully slaps his arm, but he doesn’t let her have it, and picks her up instead and throws her down onto the sofa. They’re still playfighting when Clint comes back from the kitchen with a pained sigh. “If I wanted to witness this amount of sentimentality and tongues, I could have stayed at home and watched Jersey Shore.” 

They disentangle themselves to find that Clint is drinking from one bottle and holding another open one towards Sam. “Wanna show me the yard?”

Sam looks across at Natasha with a raised eyebrow that says he knows she’s behind whatever’s going on. Natasha smiles innocently at him. Sam rolls his eyes and then saunters across to Clint and takes the proffered beer. “Sure, man, this way.”

Natasha leans back on the sofa and closes her eyes. It would be easy to fall asleep, but she needs the bathroom and she knows there’s at least one other bed upstairs. She allows herself five minutes of peace anyway. She moves to the kitchen, pours herself a glass of water, wolfs down a cookie or two from the pack on the counter and then grabs her bag from the hallway. 

She doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on Clint and Sam, but the backdoor is ajar and she is a professional spy after all, it’s more habit than anything.

Clint and Sam have pulled out two rusting garden chairs and are kicking back on the patio, drinking their beers. 

Clint is saying, “I know how they sell it, but you don’t have to be a super _human_ to be a superhero, you know. These assholes,” he points his thumb blindly over his shoulder but it’s worrying close to where Natasha is actually standing, “are the freakish ones. Most of the guys in S.H.I.E.L.D. - or whatever it is now - are human. Just your average screwed-up human. I mean, look at me, guy with a fucking bow and arrow. What am I doing on the battlefield? I don’t know. It makes no fucking sense. But I do it because they need me. And I’m a total badass, but mostly it’s the ‘need me’ thing.” 

Sam laughs. A full-bodied one. One that makes his head tilt back to the sky. 

“I tried quitting before,” Clint continues, “for sure, like you did, but at the end of the day… it’s what I do.” He shrugs. “I help people. I fight the bad guys. And it winds me up in hospital more than Natasha would like but…” He slouches in the chair and crosses his legs in front of him. “Seriously, you’re not gonna be able to do everything that they can do, but that’s not why they need you. They need you because you can do things that _they_ can’t do.”

Natasha smiles a little to herself before leaving them to it and making her way upstairs. From the looks of it, Steve and Barnes have taken the first bedroom. Steve’s shield is resting against the wall in the hallway where Barnes must have placed it, but the door to the bedroom is open a crack. She doesn’t want to intrude. The history between them is so vast and so complicated that there are a thousand things she will not be privy to, and she’s okay with that. 

She’s about to walk past the door, when she hears a whimper. She moves instinctively until she can see that Steve’s okay, but Steve’s not okay. He’s kneeling on the bed, crying freely, but Barnes is there too, head resting against Steve’s, hands cupping Steve’s face, wiping away the tears with his thumb, and god, Barnes looks like he’s on the verge of tears as well. They’re just kneeling there, clutching at each other, and whispering things between them. Her heart clenches at the sight. They’re both so wrecked. 

One of Steve’s utterances becomes loud enough for her to hear, “I’m so… thankful… for you, you know, Buck, I - ”

But then Barnes makes the miniscule movement that brushes their lips together and Steve’s mouth falls open like he’s surprised. Barnes moves his lips purposefully this time, opening them slightly to take Steve’s trembling bottom lip between his, and Steve really is shaking as his hands come to cup Barnes’ face. They both exchange small closed-mouth kisses shyly, nervously, like they’re testing the water and Natasha knows without a doubt that she is witnessing their first kiss. 

It’s a privilege, but it’s not her place. Just as the kiss turns more confident, and she can sense their longing rising to the surface in the way that their fingers tighten, she moves silently away from the door and down the hall. Their little gasps follow her and she can’t help the small smile from forming on her face. She doesn’t know how long they’ll be able to keep Barnes safe, but for now at least, Steve has him. 

She goes through the bathroom and changes into sweats. She crawls into bed and with the warm knowledge that her boys are safe and momentarily happy, she doesn’t even remember falling asleep. 


	16. Feels Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reminiscing, fluff, and a tiny sprinkling of plot.

Natasha is woken by a gentle hand on her shoulder. The smell is familiar, safe. She rolls over to see Clint lying atop the blankets next to her. 

“Hey,” he says, “sorry for waking you.” 

“S’ok,” she says sleepily. He reaches over to play with her hair and she leans into his warmth like she has so many times before.

“I got a call from Kate - ”

Natasha bolts up into a sitting position, suddenly wide awake. “She okay?”

“Oh yeah,” he waves off, “just bitten off more than she can chew. I need to head to L.A. for a while.”

Natasha relaxes at his tone and puts the puzzle pieces together. Clint had implied that they had fought and Kate’s reaction is always to run away. She seems to have the same gift for getting herself into trouble as the older Hawkeye. 

“Okay,” she says, leaning against him. “Be safe.”

“When am I ever?” he jokes. 

She pins him down with a stare. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll try not to die,” he says dramatically. 

“Better,” she says, and grabs a fistful of his tee to pull him in. He smiles and pecks her lips sweetly. She gave up a long time ago trying to define their relationship, but whatever it is, it feels stable now at least. “Thank you for coming,” she says as he pulls away.

He shrugs. “I just hope I helped make things clearer... people don’t usually come to me for advice.” He looks away for a moment and then back to her. “Think you’ve got a good set-up here, by the way. I mean, for one, you’ve got someone cooking you dinner…”

She smiles. If that was Clint’s way of giving them his blessing, she’ll take it. “You don’t think it’s a total disaster?” 

“Nat,” he chides, “it’s you, of course it’s a total disaster.”

She punches him in the arm and he laughs. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding…” he elbows her. “I mean, it totally _is_ a disaster waiting to happen, but…” He cups her face with his hand, suddenly serious. “You’re happy. Who cares about the rest, right?” 

She smiles up at him and he holds her gaze until he clearly decides he can’t handle the sappiness any longer. “Right,” he says defiantly, and stands up from the bed. “Enjoy your honeymoon and call me if you do something stupid. I’ll let you know when I’ve hauled Kate’s ass back to safety.”

She laughs as he kisses her on the forehead, and she waits until she hears the front door click closed over the sounds of the kitchen before getting out of bed. 

It’s nearly nine o’clock in the evening. It’s been such a long day, especially after her nap, that it seems impossible that Peggy’s funeral was this morning. She takes a drink of her water and then makes her way down the dark hall. There’s mutterings and laughter coming from Steve’s bedroom and the light from the bedside table is filtering out into the hallway.

She knocks on the door gently as she pushes it open. Barnes is lying on his back, Steve tucked into the crook of his neck, as Barnes’ arms gesticulate above them. They’re both naked, but neither seem to be aware of the fact, with only a thin blanket draped across them that hides very little. Their clothes are strewn literally everywhere, and she has a feeling that their first experience was more a hurried desperate coming together than the thoughtful lovemaking that Steve bestowed on her last night. 

Barnes drops his arms and grins upon seeing her. “Hey, you’re up. Come in, we’re telling stories about Peg.” 

“Yeah? I’d love to hear them.” 

She pads over to them and slides in the other side of Steve, spooning him from behind. He gives a soft little sigh at the contact and she can’t resist dropping a kiss onto his exposed shoulder. 

Barnes returns to his story, now only gesticulating with his synthetic arm, as his flesh one is now pinned by both Steve and Natasha. “So Peg’s facing down these three assholes armed to the teeth, and she’s only got this knife she stole from my boot - ”

Natasha smiles, letting the words wash over her. If you told her two days ago that Barnes would be telling stories about his past, yet alone so coherently, she wouldn’t have believed it. There’s pauses in his storytelling occasionally, where he scrunches up his face and says he doesn’t remember a certain detail. The main issue for him seems to be chronological, but for that he has Steve.

“- and so she told Dernier - oh wait, hang on, Steve, was this before or after that thing with Morita’s bracelet?” 

“After, definitely, because he still couldn’t - ”

“- hold a fork,” they say simultaneously, like it was some great inside joke. 

“Yes,” Barnes corrects, “so that’s why Dernier was out there alone. So she told Dernier - ” and he just continues.

She listens, but mostly she watches them both. This is the closure Steve needed that the funeral couldn’t give him. The chance to talk about Peggy, remember her, the way that he needs to. Barnes can only tell a couple of stories, but Steve takes over, tells them about her shooting bullets at his shield and finding him sketching in the pouring rain, and then he tells them about their only kiss and his voice deepens. Natasha stokes her thumb over his chest as Barnes kisses his forehead. 

“She was real sweet on you,” Barnes says. 

Natasha hides her smile in pillow. They both seem to have reverted to their 1940s Brooklyn slang during the reminiscing. “On both of you from what I hear,” Natasha adds.

Barnes ducks his head. “Aw, I don’t know about that. A woman like that had no business with a guy like me.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Buck,” Steve says. “You’re a good catch.”

He shakes his head. 

“And you still are,” Steve says, reaching out to tilt Barnes’ head back up to his. 

She lets them have their moment, and when it subsides, she decides to share her own story. “I remember the first time I met Peggy,” she begins, and they both turn to her with interest. “It was the late nineties. I had been rogue for a long time, but when Clint went legit, I did too. I assumed S.H.I.E.L.D. would all be men in suits, you know, criminals dressed as bureaucrats, but I opened my door one morning and there was Peggy Carter. Just as she looks in those pictures in the Smithsonian, I guess, but with grey hair. She was close to retirement I think. I was expecting her to show me paperwork or something but… she invited me out for coffee, and we went to this old-school diner place and she sat me down with her friend - though, now I suspect maybe more than a friend - and a couple of female agents, and they just started talking about everyday things - movies and recipes and stories about their husbands losing their keys. I spent the whole time sat there, not drinking coffee, trying to work out the ulterior motive. Because here were these women, these strangers, just inviting me into their world. I asked her about it years later, and she said, ‘I know what it feels like to only be able to trust one person in the world, and I know how lonely this city can be. I wanted you to know you weren’t alone.’ And it was crazy, because I only really saw her once a year, if I was lucky, and when she retired, not much at all… but I always knew if I needed someone, that she would be there.” 

By the end of it, she’s crying. She had been so tied up in making sure that Steve grieves, that she had neglected to mourn for herself. She buries her head in Steve’s side, and Barnes pulls her closer with his synthetic hand, rubbing circles on her back. 

“I know what you mean,” Barnes says. 

She lets herself cry for a while, and by the time Steve is telling them about the sketches they have at the Smithsonian, Natasha realises how much lighter she feels for doing so.

There’s a knock on the open door and Natasha wipes away the last of her tears to see Sam leaning against the door jamb. He smiles softly at them. “Hey, I thought I heard you guys up. There’s no rush, but I got some food cooking downstairs. Should be ready in ten minutes or so. If you’re hungry, come on down.”

They murmur their thanks as Sam disappears again. 

“I’m gonna give him a hand,” Natasha says. She kisses Steve’s shoulder again before slipping out of bed.

She finds Sam digging around in the fridge and can’t resist looping her arms around his broad chest and pulling him back to her. He laughs and closes the fridge door. 

“Hey you,” he says as Natasha squeezes him to her chest. 

“Hey,” she says, and lets him turn around in her arms. 

He kisses her and then pulls away, eyes flickering to her eyes which are no doubt still red. “Sorry if I interupted up there -”

She waves off his concerns and hops up onto the kitchen counter. “It’s okay, our impromptu memorial had pretty much wrapped up.” 

He nods with understanding. “I’m glad you guys had a chance to talk about it. How’s Steve holding up?”

“As good as he can be under the circumstances, I guess. How was Barnes while we were away?”

Sam leans against the counter perpendicular to her. “Good, considering. We spent a lot of the time talking; trying to come up with plans for therapy, rehabilitation, whether he wants to return to the field… and then he’d try to distract me by fucking.” He smirks. “Speaking of, we did get tested. All clean. So if you’re good without protection then…?”

“Yeah,” she tells him. She doesn’t want to get into a conversation right now about exactly why that’s the case, instead she focuses on the tingle of excitement underneath that can’t wait to be intimate with them the way she wants to be. 

“Right,” he says, blushing slightly. “But, yeah, I think we’ve made some progress at least.”

“It looks like it,” she says. “And…” she starts, reaching over to Sam and pulling him by his tee until he was standing between her open legs. “How are you?”

“Good,” he whispers against her lips. “Very, very good…”

She reaches up and claims his lips. He pushes closer to her but it’s not close enough. She reaches behind him, grabs his ass, and pulls him flush against her, until she can feel his growing hardness between her legs. They make out like teenagers against the kitchen counter until a wolf whistle gets their attention. They break away laughing as Barnes stalks closer towards then, Steve not far behind. 

Barnes says, “If I knew helping with dinner was an euphemism for fucking, I might have been quicker down the stairs.” He smirks at Natasha before pulling Sam across for a truly filthy kiss. She bites her lip at the sight. She really loves the new flirty James Buchanan Barnes. 

“Dinner ready?” Steve asks, as he gets himself a glass of water. 

“Should be, check the oven,” Sam says over his shoulder as he walks Barnes back until he’s pressed against the counter. 

Steve seems transfixed on the sight so Natasha hops down and peers at the dish that is browning nicely. She pulls it out of the oven and places it on the counter.

Barnes appears over her shoulder and breathes in deeply through his nose. “Oh man, please tell me that’s tuna pasta bake.”

“It’s tuna pasta bake,” Sam repeats, amused.

Natasha turns back to see Sam against the counter, Steve beside him, and one of Sam’s arms casually around him. She forgets occasionally that Sam and Steve have a month ahead of the rest of them; plenty of time to adjust to casual touches like that. She feels Barnes’ hand on the small of her back and smiles. Maybe it goes both ways. 

They sit around the kitchen island eating the food out of bowls with forks. They’re close enough that they can play footsie under the table, which Sam seems to take advantage of more than the others. Natasha wolfs down her food. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was, and thirsty from crying, if the empty glass beside her is any indication. 

“So…” Sam says eventually, twisting the fork between his fingers, “how bad was Washington?” 

“We got an idea of the players on the board,” Natasha says. “The good news is that Hydra -” she sees Barnes clench his fork from the corner of her eye, “and S.H.I.E.L.D. are too busy stepping over each other to be much of an issue, and then we’ve got the usual intelligence agencies, I couldn’t be sure of the identity of a handful of them, but honestly I don’t think they have the resources they would need to take us down, and then, of course, there’s Stark.”

“Tony threatened action,” Steve surmises. 

“We might have a way to avoid it though, by siding with S.H.I.E.L.D.” Natasha looks to Barnes. “They offered us a deal. They only want intel, but it needs to come directly from you, go through a lie-detector, and take place in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility.”

Barnes shakes his head. “Then it’s a trap.”

Sam tilts his head, like he’s inclined to agree.

“I negotiated that - if you agree - one of us gets to go with you,” Natasha says.

Steve nods. “And the S.H.I.E.L.D. fraction you’d be dealing with is headed by Coulson. I trust him.”

“Okay,” Barnes says. “And do you?” he asks Natasha.

“Coulson? No. For one thing, the guy’s supposed to be dead. I don’t know how involved he was in the cover-up, but if he still works for S.H.I.E.L.D., he can’t be that pissed at them. Agent May though… I respect her. I wouldn’t trust her with my life, as such, but she has integrity. She’s the one that made the deal, and she keeps her promises.” 

Barnes looks to Sam next but he just shrugs. “Man, all I know about S.H.I.E.L.D. is what I learnt when we were blowing holes in their headquarters. I can’t help you here.” 

“So…” Barnes says, “either we go with S.H.I.E.L.D. who want intel, or Stark that wants…”

“More than intel, most likely” Natasha says. “He’ll want to poke and prod you. He’ll want you brought to trial. I think he feels guilty for everything that happened and is trying to pin the blame solely on you.” 

Barnes looks to Sam. “He made your wings.”

“He did,” Sam states. 

“And Steve you… were his friend?”

Steve ducks his head. “Yes. I am his friend.”

Barnes nods, and when he speaks it’s barely above a whisper, “Do you think he could help me?”

“What do you want help with, man?” Sam asks faux-casual. 

Barnes shrugs, but Natasha doesn’t miss the movement his hand makes towards his artificial limb. “I guess it doesn’t matter… I have to go, right? To one of them? Or both. I don’t know. But I should be held responsible for my actions -”

“They weren’t your actions,” Natasha reminds him gently. 

“It doesn’t matter. They think it was me. If I don’t hand myself over then they’ll get more violent… they’ll come after you. They won’t stop. I can’t -” his voice breaks. “I can’t ask you to keep helping me.”

“You’re not asking us,” Steve says, placing his hand over Barnes’ on the counter, “we’re volunteering. Whatever you decide to do, we’re going to support you. If you want to lay low while you get it all figured out, then we’ll… figure out how.”

Barnes wrenches his hand out from under Steve’s. “I’m not getting you killed because I’m too afraid to face the consequences of my actions.”

“Look,” Sam says, ever the peacekeeper. “We don’t have to decide anything today. Stark said he’d give us a day or two. So let’s sleep on it, okay?”

Barnes nods, but Natasha watches him carefully because it doesn’t look like he’s forgetting about it. Not at all. 


	17. All The Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing, and then naked dancing. (It's porn, I'm not even going to try to disguise the fact.)

By the time they’ve finished their meal, the tension has eased and they’re back to exchanging casual conversation and teasing touches under the table. It’s a tantalising glimpse of what a life would be like with them, a fantasy that’s growing stronger with each passing day, of being able to share space so casually with them. An apartment in the city, maybe. She doesn’t remember the last time she wanted something so badly. A domicity that she never thought she wanted, she now spends her waking hours dreaming of. 

“So, I, er, have an announcement,” Sam says, clearing his throat. 

He wipes his fingers on a napkin and throws it down on the table. “I’ve been deciding about what I want for the last couple of months… whether to return to Washington, the VA, civilian life, or... “ he gestures around them, “this. Superhero stuff, you know.”

Natasha straightens. She’s ready to support him, whatever his decision, but she hopes that he’ll choose to work with them. Sam Wilson is a hero with or without wings.

“I had a good talk with Clint about what it’s like running around with superhumans all the time, and it was reassuring, I guess, to know that you don’t treat him with kiddie gloves. I think, you know, I’m always going to want to help people, out in the field, for as long as I can, so… I’m going to do it. I’m going to be an Avenger.” There’s a barely-suppressed smile on his face when he’s finished talking, and then he hoots: “Falcon, baby!”

Steve shouts excitedly and tackles Sam in a friendly headlock. Natasha laughs, and even Barnes smiles, like his earlier concerns are forgotten. 

“That’s great, man,” Barnes says with heart, getting up to give Sam a strong hug. 

Natasha jokes, “We’re gonna have to get you a costume. I’m thinking red spandex.”

Sam breaks away from the hug to point a finger at her. “Don’t you dare.” 

“Oh yeah,” Barnes drawls, “with some sort of bird theme, right?” 

Steve hums and then flickers his eyes over Sam’s body. “Gotta make sure those biceps are still visible though.” 

Sam looks between them all, horrified. “I hate all of you.” 

Natasha stands on her tip-toes to brush a kiss against his cheek. “You love us really.”

“I do,” he says softly, tilting his head to take her lips between his. “But I’m still not wearing a costume.” 

Natasha chuckles and steps back to clear the dishes. 

“I’ll help you,” Barnes says. 

He moves to join her, but he’s stopped gently by Steve’s hand on his arm. She watches as Steve lovingly kisses Barnes before letting him go.

“Just getting used to being able to do that,” Steve says with a shy smile, and then he’s squeezes Barnes’ hand in goodbye and follows Sam into the living room.

There’s still a faint blush on Barnes’ cheek as they gather up the dishes. 

“How’s that going?” she asks. 

“Good. I think,” he says, as he runs the tap. “We talked for a long time.” He focuses on the task at hand for a minute before elaborating. “I didn’t really know how to handle things with Steve before, but Sam’s been helping me… with mediation, things like that, trying to separate out me from the Winter Soldier. I think I got a better handle on it now. I don’t feel quite so… conflicted. Sam says the things the Winter Soldier did are not really my memories, that I was a passenger in my body, witnessing the things he did… but that _I_ didn’t do them. I carry it around, like a scar. It helped to think of it that way. I’m never going to be the man that I was, and I’m okay with that.” He smiles softly. “A new truth for you,” he adds for her benefit. “So I told Steve all that, but… the funny thing is, Steve isn’t the Steve I knew either. We’re both starting fresh. And I’m glad… I’m glad we got to.”

Barnes starts scrubbing the dishes in the soapy water and Natasha stands to the side with a towel, ready to dry whatever he hands her. 

“I pissed off Sam though,” Barnes admits. “Lots. I wasn’t easy on him.”

“What happened?” Natasha asks, as she takes the first clean dish. “He said you made good progress.” 

Barnes huffs. “He would. He’s got the patience of a saint. I was so mad at myself but he kept being okay about it you know? I didn’t know how to deal with his goddamn optimism all the time. He kept saying it was okay to forget things, and I was shouting and him and stuff like, ‘I haven’t forgotten anything!’ ‘cause the thing is… I remember it all. Every… you know, I wish I didn’t, but I do. I remember every detail of every mission. But… I don’t know the order of things. I’ve killed… _hundreds_ , but I don’t know which were for Hydra and which were in the war and which… weren’t. It’s like all those years happened overnight, and they’re packed so densely together I can’t separate them. That’s the part that’s the mess.”

“A side-effect of brainwashing; nothing is chronological,” Natasha says from experience, stacking the dry dishes on the side. 

“Yeah, and I guess I got worked up about it… took it out on him. It’s just… once you take out the parts of me that are Bucky and the Winter Soldier… I don’t really know what’s left.” His hands have slowed on the dishes. “You said it’s easier once you have some truths to build from, and I’ve been trying, but… there’s still a lot I’m unsure of.” 

There’s music playing softly from the living room, a rock ballad that must be on the radio, and Natasha has an idea. She puts down the dish she’s holding and reaches for Barnes’ soapy hands, leading him into the centre of the kitchen. She only has to put one foot behind her, before he gets the hint and effortlessly leads her through a slow waltz. 

“I know that you can dance,” she says, as he dips her on the third beat. 

He shakes his head. “That’s not me. The Winter Soldier was programmed to.” 

“No, the Winter Soldier was taught formal dance as a weapon, it was a skill intended to be used for evil but you - ” she says, pausing to smile as he turns her in a beautiful fashion, “you don’t dance because you are programmed to, you dance because you want to, because… you want to make me happy. And that… that is all James.”

There’s something in the way he guides her when they’re dancing that makes her feel beautiful, worthy, even when she’s dancing in a kitchen in nothing but sweatpants and an old tee. 

He pulls her close and smiles down at her. “You’re right,” he says. “I love to watch you dance. You get this little smile…” His finger comes to rest on the corner of her mouth. 

She kisses the fingertip. “Honestly, I think my love for dance might stem solely from my falsified memories, but… I’m thankful for it.” 

He nods, thoughtfully. Perhaps in time he will also be able to embrace the skills that come from his past self.

An upbeat song follows on the radio, a cheery song from the sixties, and Barnes changes rhythm without hesitating. His style loosens up and he begins to experiment. It’s not just formal dance moves anymore; there are moves thrown in that she recognises from different styles throughout the decades. She watches him with fascinated admiration as she follows his lead.

Halfway through the song, Sam and Steve appear in the doorway. For a minute they just watch with their sappy smiles that Natasha has grown to love, and then Steve says, “there’s more room out here y’know Buck - ”

And then Barnes is grabbing both of their hands and pulling them through to the living room. Steve pushes the couch further out of the way as Natasha moves the coffee table, so Barnes claims Sam first for a dance. They’re playful for a minute, spinning each other out across the floor, but then, because it’s those two, playful turns filthy. 

Natasha meanwhile targets Steve who is backing away with his hands raised. “I really am a terrible dancer.”

“Bullshit!” comes Barnes’ voice before he goes back to Sam’s lips. 

Steve scoffs. “Okay, I’ll rephrase. I really am a terrible lead.”

“Who said anything about leading?” she says, and pulls him into her arms. 

It feels odd leading someone so much larger than her, but he only steps on her toes a couple of times with embarassed little apologies voiced each time, before he gets into the swing of it. By the end of the track, he’s completely relaxed. 

“You know, I think you could lead if you trusted the person. That’s all it is. Trust.” It’s something she’s beginning to feel confidence in again, her trust instinct. She was right about the three people in this room after all. 

“I guess I just got hang-ups,” he sighs against her ear. 

“That’s understandable,” she whispers, remembering his promised dance with Peggy. She curls her hand round the back of his neck to play with the short hair there, remembering how much he likes it. “I’m just happy you’re here with us now.” 

“Me too,” he says, and kisses her cheek. 

The song changes to one with a bit of a swing and Steve breaks away laughing when he spots one of Barnes’ dance moves. 

“What?” Barnes asks.

“That move,” Steve points out again as Barnes jives over to him. “I know that move. Half the ladies back in Brooklyn knew that move.” 

It really is straight out of the 1940s, and just like that Natasha watches as Steve and Barnes fall into what she can only assume is an old routine. 

“I can’t believe that’s how they’re dancing to this song,” Sam mutters to Natasha. It was a late 90s R&B classic in reality. 

“Yeah? You got better moves?” Natasha teases. 

“Babe, I got _all_ the moves.”

Natasha laughs at his confidence, but it turns out he has every right to brag, as he shows off his dancing, some of it cheesy and some actually quite impressive. It’s a bizarre mix of modern street dancing and ironic dated dancing; he goes from locking and popping to over-zealous moonwalking like they belong together. 

“Wow,” she says as his body becomes a blur of movement. A man with abs like that should not be allowed to do body rolls. “You can really dance.”

“The military knows how to party,” he says between moves. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

She laughs. “Anyone ever tell you what I’m good at?” she asks. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Please, Miss Romanoff, why don’t you show the class?” 

She sticks her tongue out at him in a childish fashion before she jumps onto the balls of her feet. 

She can find the beat she needs even in this song. She’s closing her eyes and moving positions before she can even put names to them. She’s memorised the space in the room, she doesn’t need to look to see. She lets the music guide her from position to position, and follows its rhythm as it switches to a slower track, a modern pop song with just a man’s voice and the guitar. She hasn’t danced ballet since she left the Red Room, but the scent of her lovers is keeping her rooted in the present. Ballet does not belong to her tormentors, it belongs to her, and to her body. It seems foolish now that she refused to dance the dance in her veins for so long out of bitter stubbornness. The passion has been awakened in her once more, and although her feet are without support and are suffering from her neglect, she doesn’t want to stop now that she’s rediscovered the joy that the dance brings. 

Distantly, she feels the others slow and then pause in their dancing, and she wonders if she should stop too, but she keeps thinking… just another arabesque, another jeté, another pirouette… but then the DJ’s voice abruptly cuts through the music and her feet falter on a plié. She opens her eyes to see all three of her lovers staring back at her.

Sam is by the radio and turns it down until the DJ is just background noise. “Tasha…”

“That was beautiful,” Steve whispers.

Barnes looks at her with a watery smile.

She didn’t mean to break the mood. Guilt begins to encroach for chasing her own pleasure when she should have been ensuring they were happy. She didn’t know what came over her. Sam approaches her slowly from her right and without saying anything, begins to caress her neck with gentle kisses. She sees Barnes takes Steve’s hand and lead him towards Natasha.

They’re not upset, she realises, they’re in awe. Maybe they were enchanted by the pull of ballet too, or by, something…. someone… else. Warmth blooms in her chest at the realisation. 

Barnes takes her face between his hand and leans in to kiss her softly, far more chaste than any kiss they have exchanged before. And Steve… Steve has one hand on her hip as the other strokes her hair in the way that makes her melt. All of their hands on her body again, but this time she doesn’t want to run. She wants to be enveloped by them. 

“Can we…?” she begins, and they all pause in their ministrations immediately. She knows without a doubt they’d do anything she asked of them right now. She runs her hands through Barnes’ cropped hair while she recollects her thoughts and tries again, “Can we take this to the bedroom?”

There’s a groan but she doesn’t know who it belongs to, because her eyes have closed at the feel of Sam squeezing his arms around her. He lets go with parting kiss, and then they all spring into action; Steve turns off the radio, Barnes takes her hand, Sam sprints up the stairs ahead of them. 

When she gets to the bedroom, the one that Barnes and Steve shared only hours ago, she notices that Sam has pushed the covers aside and placed supplies on the bedside table. 

“Ever the boy scout,” Barnes teases. 

“You love it,” Sam flirts back and kneels on the bed as he pulls Barnes in for a kiss that makes Natasha’s knees weak even from this distance. “You’ve got a thing for nerds.”

“And you’ve got a thing for pensioners,” Barnes jokes.

Steve makes a sound of disgust. “Buck,” he half-complains half-whines as he comes to kneel behind Sam, but he’s obviously not that upset by the joke if the way he nibbles at Sam’s neck is any indication. 

Natasha lets herself enjoy the view for a minute, but then Steve is reaching out and wrapping his hand around her wrist and she is no longer able to resist. 

They strip each other unhurriedly, every discarded item scattered between kisses and sighs. When there’s only a few scant pieces of clothing between them, Sam reaches for her until his back is against the headboard and she’s lying against his chest, her legs encased by his.

Steve crawls up to the side of them, placing soft open-mouthed kisses along her legs, her stomach, her chest… until she is gasping for air when he takes her lips. Then she realises what Barnes has been up to when she feels a long wet stripe being licked over her panties. She gasps into Steve’s mouth just as Sam’s fingers slip beneath her bra and brush against her nipple. 

It’s all for her, she realises. 

Part of her training was to know when people needed sex and to recognise exactly what they needed from it. When she slept with Barnes it was because he needed release, when she slept with Sam it was because he needed reassurance, and Steve needed… well, he needed to feel loved. She had wanted to be with them each time, yes, but it had also fulfilled a need of theirs, and this, she realises, is her lovers’ giving her what _she_ needs. Something that she could never admit out loud. So much of what she is feels tarnished by death, and lies, and corruption… and sometimes.... sometimes she needs to feel pure. They touch her like she’s something precious, something worthy, and someone deserving of love. 

She allows herself the indulgence of believing it, and slips off her panties. 

Steve has unhooked her bra and slipped down the bed to mouth at her breasts, Sam is rocking ever so slightly against her ass in a way that drives her crazy, and Barnes has returned to her entrance, his tongue so relentless against her that she has to clench her fists into any hair, skin, or sheets that come into contact. She’s already dizzy with it when Sam slips his finger into Steve’s mouth right against her nipple. She groans, but she doesn’t even have time to recover before Sam moves beneath her and his wet finger is joining Barnes in pleasuring her. She rolls a little onto her side and keeps her legs as wide as possible to give Sam better access, and Steve takes the opportunity to press against her back, rolling his hips against hers, and kissing her neck. 

It’s beautiful torture but she doesn’t know which name to curse in blame. Then, she does know, because Barnes pulls back from between her legs to murmur something to Sam, and of course that asshole is up to something, _of course_. 

Sam grins and retreats his finger only to put two into Steve’s eager mouth. Barnes is still making her see stars with his tongue but he’s switched targets, and Natasha has enough wits about her to know what’s coming before Sam shifts further down the bed and she feels him press a finger inside of her, lubricated by Barnes’ affections and Steve’s kisses. She groans more at the thought than the sensation; it’s the closest she might ever get to having all three of her lovers inside her at once. 

Sam adds the second finger and crooks them just right, just as Barnes gives a particularly filthy suck just inches away. Sam’s fist is brushing Barnes’ chin in one direction and Steve’s underwear in another, but he doesn’t stop, keeps hitting that spot inside her until she is so close, but then just as she’s about to close her eyes and let go, she sees Barnes shake his head. Sam smirks and retracts his fingers. 

She’s about to kill every single one of them in ways too classified to explain when she feels Steve’s girth pressing against the place where Sam’s fingers had left her. He’s still pressed firmly against her and she has no idea when he lost his underwear and lubed up, and she’s past caring. He thrusts into her in one confident stroke. She makes a strangled noise, her eyes rolling back into her head, as he rocks his hips in short, jerky movements, just enough to caress that spot inside her until she’s screaming her climax into Sam’s kiss. 

Steve slows his movements, but just the feel of him inside of her coaxes her through the aftershocks. As she shifts further onto her back, she feels a heavy weight over her, and her eyes flutter open to see the flushed face of Barnes above her. Her mouth lies open but Barnes licks at it, and Sam and Steve lie on either side of her, Sam kissing her neck, and Steve smoothing the quivers out of her stomach. 

“Love you,” she whispers. She doesn’t know who she’s aiming the words at, but it’s true for all of them. 

They haven’t even sought their own pleasure yet, they just caress her gently, waiting for her to come back to them. She’s starting to think she will always come back to them. 

“Love all of you,” she repeats. 

Her fingers tangle in Steve’s short hair and her other hand scratches the back of Sam’s neck as Barnes nuzzles against her. They might say it back, or whisper the words into her skin as if they’re afraid to say it out loud, but she feels it in her bones and that’s enough.

She’s not aware of anything else until she feels Steve pull out of her, still erect, and roll onto his back beside her. She sighs at the loss, but a joint groan from Sam and Barnes drowns it out. She admits, it’s a pretty good sight. 

Steve catches them looking and throws them a confident, dirty smile. 

“Fuck it,” Barnes says, climbing off Natasha. “I did not wait sixty years to resist that.” 

Sam laughs as Barnes takes Steve down in one swallow. For all of Steve’s confidence, he seems startled by the move, his breath catching and his head thrown back, eyes squinted shut and his mouth tight-lipped as if trying not to speak. Natasha’s mesmerized by the sight. 

Sam’s hand reaches around her to stroke the back of Barnes’ neck as he pleasures Steve. Not holding him down, she realises; no one reaches for Barnes’ head at all, as tempting as it would be to curl fingers in that messy hair. Barnes moans at the contact of Sam’s hand and it’s mirrored seconds afterwards by Steve. 

She can feel Sam pressed behind her, and with the sight in front of her, she’s already desperate for more. She tilts her head to the side and kisses Steve’s cheek until he turns his head to meet her kiss.

“You know that thing I taught you…” Sam whispers to Barnes. “Steve really likes it too. He makes this little noise - ”

Steve makes a noise into Natasha’s mouth but she can’t tell if it’s a moan of pleasure or protest. Steve pulls away to glare up at Sam, who’s leaning up on one elbow over Natasha’s shoulder to smirk down at him. “Aw man, you didn’t have to tell him that - ”

“He’d find out eventually,” Sam defends. “And this way Tasha gets to hear it too. Unless, of course, you’d rather we leave you to it - ”

“No!” Steve says hastily. 

“Thought as much,” Sam says with a winning grin. He props himself over Natasha momentarily to give Steve a deep kiss. Her view of Barnes is obscured by the sight of Steve’s hands cupping Sam’s face, but she hears the opening of a lube bottle and knows that she’s in for a good show. 

Barnes catches Sam in a kiss on his way back to Natasha and then settles back between Steve’s legs with a mischievous smile. Steve groans and throws an arm over his eyes. Natasha reaches her arm over his torso in some semblance of comfort. She knows that Barnes is ruthless in bringing about his partner’s pleasure. Steve will have forgotten his own name before Barnes eases up. 

Barnes takes Steve back into his mouth and while pushing his first finger inside. Steve seems to take it with little resistance, so Barnes returns with a second finger. Sam tenses behind Natasha and slips his leg between hers, like he’s anticipating what is coming. 

Sam’s hand comes to rest on Barnes’ neck again, and he begins muttering encouragements under his breath. Steve’s clutching the bedsheets and she’s so close she can see the sweat forming on his brow. She moves her hand over his chest until she can feel his heartbeat thundering against her hand. 

Then she sees Barnes twist his hand and Steve makes this high-pitched whining noise as if he’s _dying._ It goes straight to her crotch. Sam’s hips stutter against her own. Barnes completely freezes, Steve slipping out of his mouth as he stares agape at a bright-red Steve. 

“That’s the noise,” Sam explains breathlessly. 

“Fuck,” Natasha swears, and not just because it might be the best sound she’s ever heard, but because Sam’s instinctive movements brought him frustratingly close to her entrance. She slides against him, teasing herself, and he shudders against her back. His hand falls from Barnes’ neck to pull her in tighter, until they’re rocking together. She reaches up behind her to pull his head down to her shoulder, needing him even closer, and he kisses and nibbles behind her ear.

Her eyes flicker open to see Steve and Barnes looking at them and she stares straight back. With Barnes’ fingers still deep inside Steve, he leans up to kiss her, and the movement must push his hand even deeper because Steve makes the beautiful noise again which causes Barnes to moan against her, his lips slipping until her bottom lip is caught just between his teeth. 

Barnes curses and lets her go. He leans down over Steve instead, supported by the synthetic hand that lies between Natasha and Steve on the pillows, Barnes’ nose hovering inches from Steve’s. He leans down to kiss him, so sweetly, that even Sam’s movements slow to a crawl. 

“I can’t believe I - ” Barnes whispers against Steve’s lips.

Steve reaches with both of his hands to frame Barnes’ face and pulls him back down for a slow kiss. “Me too, Buck, me too.” 

Natasha’s hand is tangled with Sam’s on her stomach but they move as one towards them, resting on Barnes’ back. Natasha turns her head, and places a kiss on the cool metal of Barnes’ hand. He breaks the kiss to look towards her with a bashful smile. She sees him blinking back tears but she doesn’t comment on it. It’s emotional for all of them. 

Barnes kisses his way down Steve’s body and then Natasha watches as he inserts a third finger. Steve squirms beneath him, and Natasha unwraps her hand from Sam’s to move against Steve’s abdomen, so she can feel the muscles contract beneath her fingers. 

Sam’s hand returns to pressing against Natasha’s stomach as he rubs against her, surer and faster in his movements than before. Natasha has yet to feel him inside her, as the last time they were this close it wasn’t what he needed, but this time, Natasha is desperate to feel it, and from his quickening movements, he is too.

They hold their position, just long enough to see Barnes line up to Steve and finally push in, and it’s worth her patience to see the way Steve’s eyelids flutter and the way Barnes arms come to frame Steve’s head like he just can’t hold himself up any longer, but then it’s too much, and she needs to feel Sam inside her. 

In one swift movement, she’s flipped Sam onto his back and is straddling his hips, his length deep inside her. Sam throws his head back, his eyes to the ceiling, his legs flailing on the bed like he’s trying to get a grip. “Fuck,” he gasps, his hands coming to grasp her hips like it would do anything to stop her. She wants to act like she’s in control, but honestly, her mind melted as soon as he entered her, and she doesn’t even care he feels so good. 

Barnes and Steve are so close she can feel them against her. Knows they paused once Barnes was fully seated. Feels their gaze. She reaches out blindly, her hand finding Barnes’ ass and she gives it an encouraging squeeze. “Gonna leave him waiting?” she manages to ask.

“Only if you do,” Barnes bickers, but there’s a desperation to his voice that she recognises all too well. They need release tonight, not games. 

She opens her eyes to see Sam and Steve exchanging open-mouthed kisses below her, and really, _fuck waiting_. 

It’s hard to hold back after that; they don’t rest until they’re all sated, sweaty, bodies twisted over the bed. They’re still gasping for breath, and everything feels like a thousand degrees, but it’s still perfect as exhausted lips brush exhausted bodies. 

Sleep pulls at her, but fascination keeps her awake. She watches Steve’s eyes, wide with wonder, as he stares at Barnes. She hears the soft kisses Sam places on Steve’s face. She feels Barnes’ metallic fingers in her hair, no longer ashamed of them, or fearing of their power. The same fingers that once clenched around her neck in angry confusion, are now ever so gentle in caressing her. 

Barnes breaks his gaze with Steve to look at her. There’s a sad smile, but she lacks the energy to tease out just why that might be. They’ve been through a lot. She reaches to trace the stubble of his beard. His hair is still the hastily-cut mess that it was, but he’s grown into it, and it’s spread carefree on the pillow beneath him. There are so many things she could say to him, but she knows he understands it all, even the things that are only barely-formed thoughts. She wants to believe he understands at any rate. 

She holds his gaze until his eyes flutter shut, and then she lets herself drift into the warmth around her, a deep feeling of security enveloping her.


	18. Bring Him Home

Natasha wakes, sudden and alert, and knows immediately that there’s something amiss. She quickly extracts herself from the tangle of limbs and slips into the shadows of the early morning, freeing her knife as she goes. She grabs a discarded tee from the floor and wears it to cover herself as she pads, silently and deadly, down the hall. 

Five minutes later, and she’s secured the entire house. There’s no one here. But she knows there’s something wrong. She _feels_ it. And seconds later, she recalls the moment in which she jumped out of bed. 

There were only two bodies besides her, not three. 

Then, she remembers the small, sad, smile Bucky gave her before he closed his eyes last night. 

_He’s gone_ , she realises with dread. _Bucky has gone_. 

Her breathing suddenly becomes panicked, in a way she thought she had trained herself out of. Was he taken? Was Stark here? How did he manage to leave without her noticing? 

Her mind is a whirlwind of horrible possibilities, and then she sees a piece of paper lying on the kitchen counter, and sprints towards it. It’s a letter, written in shaky handwriting with a black pen. 

_I’m sorry for leaving. I know you’re probably angry. That I left so quick. That I didn’t talk to you about it. But every second I’m here, I’m endangering you._

_I know it was the Winter Soldier that killed all those people, but as far as the world is concerned, the Winter Soldier is me. And I need to face up to that. So, I’m handing myself over to Stark, and I'll accept whatever punishment is given to me._

_I know S.H.I.E.L.D. will probably be pissed that I didn’t accept their offer, but I don’t trust them, I doubt I ever will. At least Stark might be able to take a look at this machine that Hydra stuck to my body. And if it’s not safe - if I’m not - then he can disable it (or me)._

_Thank you for everything you’ve done. I don’t deserve your trust, but I am trying to make a good case for it._

The next part is scrawled at the bottom, like an afterthought, but the firm strokes of the pen suggest it’s anything but. 

_I love you. And the fact that you all somehow love me will be a truth that I keep with me, whatever happens._

Natasha nearly screws up the paper in anger, but she screams out her frustration instead. She paces the kitchen, cursing. “You’re an idiot, James Buchanan Barnes,” she mutters. “You're lucky I don't kill you myself.”

Sam and Steve come rushing through the door, half-dressed and poised to fight, but they pause when they see only her in the kitchen. She holds out the letter to them, and watches as their faces fall from confusion to understanding to disappointment. It breaks her heart. 

“He left?” Steve croaks, striding forward to take the letter out of her hands. His eyes flicker over the words, searching for an explanation. Sam comes to read over his shoulder. 

“He didn’t leave _us_ , as such,” Natasha surmises. “He handed himself over to Stark.” 

Steve’s jaw clenches. “Same damn thing,” he bites, pushing the letter into Sam’s hands, who takes his turn to examine the letter.

“It’s my fault,” Sam sighs, as his fingers traced over the words. “I should have seen it. Bucky was so full of guilt. He wanted to be punished. He stopped self-harming, and I thought we were working through it but-” 

“It’s no one’s fault,” Natasha corrects. Sam always puts too much pressure on himself, and he takes every stumble as his own personal failure, but she’ll be damned if she lets him feel guilty about this. “Bucky makes his own decisions. This is what he wanted. And as hard as this is, maybe it’s for the best.”

“For the best?!” Steve exclaims. “Tony wants to pin every death from the last century on his shoulders. He’ll trap him in his tower, and, sure, he’ll look at the arm, but he’ll also tear his mind open trying to find answers. And that’s if Bucky even makes it to the Tower. What if S.H.I.E.L.D. or - hell, someone we don't even know - grabs him before he can make it back to New York-?” 

“Then we get there first,” Sam says with resolve. “We get there first. We talk to Stark. Get him to understand how delicate the situation is. That he has access to Bucky if he agrees that I can keep counselling him, that he’ll be allowed freedom, won’t be treated like a criminal-” 

“That’s not a bad plan,” Natasha says. “I respect Bucky’s decision, I do, but as soon as he gets there, he’ll relinquish all his power to Stark. He’s so determined to be punished for the Winter’s Soldier’s actions that he’s not thinking about what it’s going to do to _him_. You’re right Sam, if Stark treats him like a monster, then he’ll regress into one. I’m not letting Stark near him until we know he’ll be safe in his hands.”

Steve nods. “Fine. But after our display at the funeral, everyone knows we have Bucky. Or _thinks_ we do,” he adds with a forlorn look at the letter resting in Sam's hangs. "We can’t exactly hop a plane right now, so how the hell are we meant to get to New York without fighting off half the world’s intelligence agencies?” 

“I have an idea about that,” Natasha says. “A favor I might be able call in.” She thinks it over and then nods to herself. “Yeah, I need to make a couple of calls. Get your gear, get some food in you, and hopefully by then, I’ll have us a way out of here.” 

-

Her first call is to Isaiah. 

He sighs. “It’s seven am. How can you possibly be in trouble already?” 

“Do you have eyes on this safehouse?” 

“You mean the one you didn’t tell me you moved to?” 

Natasha swears under her breath. “Is that a no?” 

“Yes, it’s a no. I’m very good at my job, Natasha, it just so happens that my job isn’t actually watching you 24-7. I’m a lawyer, in case you’d forgotten.” 

She rubs her hands over her eyes. “I’m sorry, Isaiah. It’s been a very long twenty-four hours.” 

“Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?” 

She’s about to refuse his offer, when a stray thought crosses her mind about another lost soul in New York; one that she didn’t used to have the strength to care for. “How do you feel about cats, Isaiah?” 

Ever professional, he only stumbles for a moment. “Cats? I like cats.” 

“I visited my old apartment a while back. There’s a black cat that-”

“Liho. Yes, I remember. I also remember that you refused to adopt him.” 

“I changed my mind. Can you look after him for me until I get home?” 

_Home_. The word echoes in her mind. She can picture home so clearly now; a place with the four of them, a home filled with laughter and love, and maybe Liho too. She wants it. The stability. The safety. She wants it so much that it burns. For the first time, she got a glimpse of what a domestic life would be like, not the ones she read about in books with scenes of a husband and children, but a _real_ one, a messy one, with weapons next to the take-out containers and men’s socks scattered all over the house and some of the most powerful people on the planet on their speed-dial. Their version of domesticity. _Their_ home. 

“You’ve got it,” Isaiah says. “Stay safe.” 

“I will.” 

She hangs up and then takes a deep breath before dialling Maria Hill. 

“Are you still working for Stark?” she asks as a greeting. “We need to get to the Tower by this evening, and trust me, its within your interests that we do. Can you arrange transport?” 

As shocked as Maria is, she agrees to help get them to New York via a private plane, and then she says, “I strongly advise not turning up at Tony’s without prior arrangement. His technology can be… unwelcoming. I suggest you let me inform him of your visit.” 

“No,” Natasha says in a hurry, and then catches herself and explains, “I mean, don’t worry about it. Pepper’s my next call. She owes me a favour so I’m hoping she’ll be amenable to last minute meeting.” 

There’s a sigh over the phone. “You’re not planning on seeing Tony at all, are you?”

Natasha smirks. “I have a feeling he’ll be occupied.” 

There’s a pause, and then Maria says, “This is one of those occasions where it's best to feign ignorance, isn’t it?” 

Natasha smiles. Maria knows her far too well. Of course her plan is to distract Tony Stark, not only to keep him away from Barnes, but also to keep him away from the meeting. Everyone knows that if you want to negotiate with Tony, you've got to go through Pepper, and Natasha always found her to be much more reasonable. 

With Maria’s help, Natasha manages to get Sam and Steve to the local airfield without attracting too much attention. They wait for the private plane to land, passing coffee and doughnuts between them, and feeling ridiculous, dressed in their full tactical gear while drinking Starbucks. None of them talk about Barnes. 

Natasha’s briefing them on her plan, when Sam asks her mid-chew, “But who’s crazy enough to keep Iron Man occupied all day? _Voluntarily_ , I mean? Without killing the guy?” 

Steve looks across to Natasha and sighs. “Don’t tell me you called Deadpool.”

She shakes her head and swallows her coffee with disgust. “I wasn’t that desperate.” 

“Spider-man?” 

“Busy.”

“Young Avengers?”

She winces. “Not quite.”

“Hawkeye? Either of them?”

“Still in L.A.”

Steve puts down his coffee with determination. “Squirrel Girl.” 

Sam chokes on his coffee then turns towards Natasha with disbelief. “There’s a superhero called _Squirrel Girl_?” 

Natasha ignores his outburst with an amused shake of her head, and continues talking to Steve, “It makes sense. They have a history, so he’s more likely to take the bait. She’s got backup if she needs it-” 

Sam is still spluttering. “No, I’m sorry. _Squirrels_. Are you hearing yourselves? Like… how is this a thing? How is this a thing that _I don’t know about?”_

“-she’ll probably just borrow one of his suits again. They’ll spend the day arguing. Fighting crime. Making friendship bracelets. Whatever they do. Problem solved.” 

“‘Powers of both squirrel and girl,’” Sam reads from his phone. “ _Awesome_.”

Steve looks across at him with betrayal.

“What? Us animal-themed superheroes have to stick together. And, look at this,” he says pointing to the screen, “she has a squirrel for a side-kick. That’s awesome. Do you think I should get a falcon? It could perch on my shoulder, intimidate the bad guys-” 

“Is it too late to revoke his superhero status?” Natasha jests to Steve. “I think it’s gone to his head.” 

“You’re just jealous,” Sam mutters. “You _wish_ you could have a falcon.” 

“Sure, buddy,” Steve says. “And how’s your falconry skills?” 

They tease Sam as they wait for Maria, but underneath it, she truly is happy that Sam chose to take up the mantle. She remembers seeing that kid on the plane with the Falcon toy and she knows that, with or without an actual falcon, he’ll make his mark. No one has a purer heart and stronger courage. He was a hero even before he became an Avenger. 

If there’s a silver lining to Bucky leaving them, then it’s in seeing Sam step up to find him. She doesn’t know what will await them in New York, but she has faith that between the three of them, they can find Bucky and bring him home. 


	19. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha realises it's her friends that will get them out of this.

It’s afternoon by the time they arrive in New York City, and they’re greeted at the top of Stark Tower by an armed escort.

Natasha wonders if Stark knows how much his actions give him away. This display of power most likely means two pieces of good news: A) that Stark is indeed too occupied to threaten them himself, and B) that if Stark is _this_ worried about them wrecking havoc then Barnes is likely somewhere in the building beneath them. It’s almost _reassuring_ to see an armed escort. They boys don’t seem to agree though.

“How nice of Tony to bring a welcoming party,” Steve mutters as he gives the soldiers a side-eye. She notices how his grip on his shield tightens as he exits the plane. These highly trained men and women dressed in black must still set him on edge after being trapped in an elevator surrounded by such people.

The fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. made Steve lose his faith in people, and she hardly helped, disappearing so suddenly afterwards. She knows, deep down, that Steve was never as naively trusting as the textbooks made him out to be. No one grew up during the war, poor and orphaned, and still had faith in the world. But Steve used to make an effort to see the good in people. She thinks maybe he’s not trying so hard nowadays.

There’s a hard-edged set to his shoulders. Steve’s protective of Bucky to a dangerous degree and she worries what he’ll do if Stark doesn’t cooperate. That’s the main reason why she’s meeting with Pepper first. She knows if she puts Steve in the same room as Tony right now, that all they’ll achieve is breaking thousands of dollars worth of furniture in the inevitable fist fight. Steve’s strung up so tight over Bucky leaving that all it would take to start a war would be carefully aimed dig from Stark.

If she’s learned anything from being alive longer than most, it’s that you ought to do anything you can possibly do to avoid a war.

Maria’s hand on her shoulder breaks her from her thoughts. Natasha had been frowning at Steve’s shield and planning contingencies when she ought to have been watching the security. Then again, Steve looks paranoid enough right now to have that covered. “Natasha?” Maria asks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, shaking it off, and hauling her bag over her shoulder. “It’s just been a crazy few days.”

Maria doesn’t look convinced; her eyebrow is cocked in the way that means she can see right through her. “I’m not surprised,” she says. “Have you considered taking a vacation? Beach, sunshine, cocktails, you know… someplace you don’t have to take a gun.”

Natasha huffs. Maria is one of the few people that can get away with teasing her. “I’m familiar with the concept. La Palma, remember?”

Maria smiles coyly. “La Palma was a mission.”

“And yet I don’t remember doing much work,” Natasha says, looking up through her eyelashes.

She bites her lip at Maria’s gaze, suddenly flushed hot from the memory of fucking Maria in the shadows of a pool the dark side of midnight. In theory, they were waiting at the hotel for a contact, but he never showed. Instead, Natasha had a rare few days of peace, spent lazily by the pool sipping cocktails and enjoying Maria’s company.

What happened in La Palma stayed in La Palma, right? They jumped from colleagues to lovers in a matter of minutes, but when they returned to New York, they found that they were firm friends. Even though Maria is all business, and even though she works for Stark now, Natasha still trusts her to have her back. Sometimes it takes a long journey to get to where you are.

Maria breaks the gaze with a laugh. “Fine, but promise me when this is all over, you’ll do something _fun_. Promise me.”

Before she can answer, Sam ducks back into the plane, “You coming, Tasha? Steve’s getting antsy.”

Natasha nods. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

She turns back to Maria and smiles sadly. “Sure you can’t come with?”

Maria shakes her head. “I’ve got other things to attend to. Also, I have better deniability if I’m nowhere near this when it explodes.”

Natasha ducks her head. “Right. Hope you don’t lose your job.”

“Hope you don’t kill my boss,” Maria counters.

Natasha acknowledges it with an amused tilt of her head. “I hope so too.”

She’s about to leave when Maria calls her back. “I hope he’s worth it.”

Natasha pauses, and turns back to face her friend.

“A lot of dangerous people want Barnes and you’re putting yourself in the line of fire for defending him. I think we both know if you weren’t… attached, you’d be on our side in this. He’s killed a lot of people, Natasha, he needs to be held accountable.”

“The _Winter Soldier_ killed a lot of people, not Bucky. He isn’t responsible for his actions; Hydra is.”

Maria puts her hands on her hips. “The media won’t accept that. Stark won’t accept that.”

“They want someone to hang, I know. Someone to blame. But I have to believe that Pepper’s smart enough to know that it’s a false solution. Hydra is the monster we ought to be hunting. Barnes feels so guilty for the Winter Soldier’s actions that he’s handing himself in just to maintain peace but he doesn’t deserve the hatred directed at him. He’s a _good man_. He just can’t see it yet. And he never will if Stark brands him a monster.”

Maria shakes her head. “I’ve never seen you have so much faith in anyone. I just hope you chose the right person to trust.”

Natasha doesn’t even need to think twice about it. “I did.”

-

Pepper Potts is another old friend that Natasha is all too happy to see. The boys baulk when instead of stony glares and cold handshakes, they greet each other with a friendly hug. What the boys don’t understand is her female friendships often trump whatever games the boys have going on. Natasha started to rely on fellow female agents for survival long before she did it for friendship. Her, Pepper, and Maria all respect each other enough to negotiate before throwing punches. Peggy too, before she passed away.

Pepper strides across her office, heels click-clacking the whole way, as she indicates for the three of them to sit. Natasha does. Sam and Steve hover uncertainly before perching on the very edge of the couch, ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice.

Pepper seems to notice their distrust and rolls her eyes slightly to Natasha as she leans back against her desk. “So, I’m guessing that the sudden rodent infiltration of Tony’s lab was your doing.”

Natasha attempts to suppress her smirk. “Rodents, you say? What kind of-”

Pepper crosses her arms. “Don’t act ignorant, it doesn’t suit you. You know exactly what kind of rodents.”

“What-?” Steve starts to ask.

“Squirrel Girl and her army are currently destroying the basement.”

As if timed, a loud crash sudden sounds from what must be at least ten floors below them.

“ _Accidentally_ , of course,” Pepper says with a smile that means she knows exactly what’s going on. “But it’s been occupying Tony for going on three hours now.” She turns to Natasha, “If you wanted to speak to me alone, all you had to do was ask.”

Natasha tilts her head to the side with a look of disbelief. “Right, because Stark always respects private discussions. He’s not the type to accost people at funerals or anything.”

Pepper waves her off, defeated. “Oh, I suppose you're right. So, go on, speak your piece.”

“Ishehere?” Sam blurts out. He must have been restraining himself throughout the entire conversation.

“Bucky,” Steve clarifies. “He said he was handing himself over to Stark. Is he here? In this building? Can we talk to him?”

Pepper frowns, pity lining her features. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“We know,” Natasha says before Steve can jump in. “But can you tell us if you’ve got him in your custody? And safe?”

Pepper worries her lower lip, clearly deciding how much to tell them. “Yes,” she says eventually. “He’s with us, and safe.”

“Can you tell us what Stark wants?”

Pepper huffs. “Free pizza, topless models…”

“With Barnes,” Natasha clarifies. They share an amused smile.

“Honestly?” Pepper says, throwing up her hands. “I have a feeling that what he’s telling the public he wants and what he actually wants are two very different things. He’s been talking recently about the need for regulation. S.H.I.E.L.D. have this… register, I suppose, for inhumans. Documenting who has what power. He wants some kind of legal system so that superpowered people can be held accountable for their actions. He still feels guilty for his own actions, Banner’s recently gone off the map, and then… Barnes, of course. So the public think that he wants justice for the deaths in Washington, to bring the Winter Soldier to trial, and demonstrate this willingness for superpowered people to pay for their crimes, but in actuality? He hasn’t told the authorities that we have him. I think he wants to do this singlehandedly. Maybe he thinks it will ease his guilt or something… but there’s a danger here, that he won’t patiently wait for the public, or legalities, or care about whoever the person under that mask is. Tony is a man who will chase answers until he hits a brick wall, and then he’ll just keeping throwing himself at that brick wall until _that_ breaks too.”

“Can you talk to him?” Natasha pleads.

“You think I haven’t tried?” Pepper says, exasperated. “You can’t tell Tony Stark what to do, and god knows the man won’t talk about anything so unimportant as his _feelings_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I agree we need to stop this from escalating, but he’s not seeing things clearly, and I don’t know if it would make any difference if he were. What’s the right thing to do here? Let Barnes go free despite him killing hundreds, maybe thousands, of people? And set the precedent for the future? Or give him the death penalty for crimes he wasn’t even aware of committing?”

“Hopefully we can find a compromise. To find justice for the families of the Winter Soldier’s victims but not kill the innocent man underneath.”

“You really believe Barnes had no idea what he was doing?”

“He was brainwashed, Pepper. If that’s even the word for what Hydra did to him-”

“We have evidence that those crimes were carried out against his will,” Sam interrupts. “We’ve been raiding old Hydra bases since Washington, and we’ve dug up notes on the Winter Soldier, some of it near fifty years old. We know exactly what they were doing to him. He was a shell the entire time. A weapon. His entire person was removed and replaced with orders, targets, missions. The person that’s sitting in your cell is a victim, not a convict.”

“He’s a good person,” Natasha urges. “If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have handed himself in. He’s wracked with guilt for deaths that weren’t even his fault. I thought that was something that Tony might understand…”

Pepper bites her lip again, but it’s enough to let Natasha know that they’ve got her.


	20. Up All Night To Get Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight comes to a point, and Natasha comes to terms with her own past behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter title I couldn't resist. I know, I know.

It feels like they spend the next two hours just listening to Tony and Pepper argue.

They sit around a full kitchen table, none of them eating a goddamn thing out of nerves, as day gives way to night, and the muffled argument continues through the door. Steve paces, Sam fidgets, and Natasha closes her eyes and plans every way out of this scenario. She just hopes she dropped enough seeds to at least get Tony to talk to them before locking Bucky away forever.

Eventually, Tony opens the door with his usual flair and heads straight to the drinks cabinet.

Natasha tries to speak but he holds his hand up to silence her and keeps it there until he’s drunk a good half of his glass, and then turns back to the three of them. “Just so you know,” he drawls, “you three are causing me so much stress, I should have my shrink bill you all.”

Natasha watches as Tony takes another sip and seems to have a silent argument with Pepper who's hovering in the doorway.

He sighs and looks back to them. “Look, I want to help you, I do. I know what he means to you,” he directs to Steve, “but you think anyone’s going to believe that he wasn’t in control of his actions? You can’t kill hundreds of people in your sleep!” he exclaims, dropping his glass on the sideboard with a harsh clink. “He’s handed himself in and we’re going to handle it, that’s that.”

Natasha feels Sam and Steve bristle, but she beats them to it, stepping forward and holding out her hands. “Then you’d better take me too.”

At this, Sam and Steve really do jump to their feet and start protesting. Stark looks at her, shocked.

“I wasn’t bluffing at the funeral,” she says. “You know what I’ve done. My files were released after Washington. I’ve killed people under orders and manipulation, and if you plan on punishing him for it, then I deserve the same.”

Stark spreads his hands. “That’s different, Tasha. You were taken in by S.H.I.E.L.D., you atoned-”

“But you won’t let him do the same?”

Stark falters. “If that was the only issue, then maybe we could negotiate, but what about the crimes he _was_ conscious of? During the war-”

“Crimes that I ordered,” Steve steps forward. “If you’re arresting him for war crimes, then you take me too. I was there for most of them.”

Stark rolls his eyes. “You’re Captain America. Your actions are protected by order of the President-”

“Then Bucky’s should be too. The Howling Commandos were granted immunity.”

“Fine! Then, _current_ crimes. We’ve been keeping tabs on him since Washington-”

“He did what it took to survive,” Natasha defends, remembering his arrangement with the drug house. “You’re telling me you’ve never stolen clothes to keep warm or bent a situation to your advantage-”

“I know about Idaho,” he cuts across in an even tone.

Natasha sucks in a breath, remembering Bucky’s sudden remission while rescuing Steve.

“He attacked you, Natasha. He could have _killed_ you,” he says emphatically. “He’s unstable. Fine, he might - after trial - be exonerated for his crimes, but he’s a danger to the public, and he knows that, or he wouldn’t have handed himself in.”

Sam steps forward to offer himself with the rest of them. “I sent him into the field. I’m his counsellor. I thought he was ready, and he clearly wasn’t. If that’s your argument, then you’d have to take me to trial too.”

Tony throws up his hands. “Fine! I’ll take every superhero in New York to court. Is that what you assholes want?”

“If it’s the only way you’ll listen,” Natasha says. “None of us are innocent.”

“That’s why I want a register-”

“I’m not against that Tony,” she says, though Steve straightens beside her like he is. “That’s a fight for another day. We’re just here to ask you not to treat Bucky like a goddamn monster.”

“He’s mentally unstable.”

“Then he needs care, not a cage.”

“There’s no telling what Hydra did to him-”

“So analyse him. And that could happen in _your_ labs if you agree to treat him like a human being, unless you’d rather we take him to S.H.I.E.L.D. -”

“Urgh,” Tony says. “Like they’d even know what they were looking at.”

Natasha suppresses a smirk. She knew appealing to his ego would tilt the scales.

Tony leans against the counter and breathes deep. “Okay,” he says finally. “I propose a compromise.”

She crosses her arms. “I’m listening.”

“We take him out of confinement and I run some tests. I should probably let one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s monkeys quiz him for their history books while I’m at it. You can get your case together, show my lawyers those Hydra files you uncovered, and whatever else. I promise to-” and here he rolls his eyes and air quotes “-‘treat him as a human being’ but if he so much as _twitches_ throughout all this, I put him away, no questions asked.”

“And afterwards?” Natasha presses. “If he’s proved innocent?”

Tony crosses his arms, imitating Natasha. “And afterwards, we’ll see.”

It’s probably the best deal they’re going to get with so few bargaining chips. “Okay.” She nods. But she’s not alone anymore, the decision isn’t hers alone. She turns to Steve, and then Sam, and they both nod. “Okay. If Bucky agrees, we agree,” she tells Tony.

-

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Tony was actually keeping Bucky in the tower. He takes them down a few floors until the elevator doors open to a floor made of toughened glass.

Natasha says, “Why doesn’t it surprise me you have an entire floor of cells?”

“Restricted guest suites,” Tony corrects.

They find Bucky in the third cell, curled in on himself in the far corner; a single ball of black in the unnaturally bright room.

His head snaps up at the electronic sound of the cell unlocking, and his eyes immediately lock onto hers; red, and wide with horror. He jumps to his feet as the door opens, and Tony looks seconds away from calling for his suit, but that’s not where his anger is directed. Bucky is furious at her. At them.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

Natasha tries to defend their actions but he talks over her.

“No. You keep pushing me to make my own choices, and I finally make a decision of my own, and what? You decide that you don’t like it, so you march over here like disgruntled parents and take over? That’s not how it works. You either respect my decision, and leave, or...you don’t.”

Natasha bows her head, and wets her lips, trying to form the words. “I _do_ respect your decision,” she says. “I respect the reasons behind it: wanting to find answers, wanting to keep us safe. The fact that you even want these things mean that you’re not the bad person that you tell yourself you are. You have no idea how many times I have wanted to do to the same thing in the past. How many times I actually followed through and left behind people that I cared about because I was afraid to stay.” She glances back to Steve and Sam, and they seem to understand it for the apology that it is for the months in which she disappeared after Washington. “But sometimes you become so blinded by your own insecurities that you’re unable to see that there’s another way.”

She steps towards him, and when she senses his defences have crumbled a little, reaches for his hands.

“I know you feel like you deserve to be punished, but it doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to hand over your agency and put your fate in the hands of a mad scientist-”

Tony Stark protests from the doorway and it seems to rise a small smile of amusement from Bucky.

“Sometimes other people aren’t the answer; they can help, but ultimately they can’t bring about a change in yourself. Only you can make the choice to get better. I suggest that you take the anger you have directed at yourself and turn it towards the people that are truly responsible for this. Hydra. And you might find, when you’ve stopped hating yourself, that there’s more to be found underneath. A person that deserves peace, and love, and a home.”

He shakes his head, eyes to the ground, like he’s hiding his tears.

“You don’t think it’s possible, I know,” she says with understanding. “I didn’t either. I didn’t believe I could find my place in this world. I didn’t think I’d ever forgive myself long enough to live, yet alone, love. But I…” she bites her lip, a part of herself still unbelieving that she can say things she thought were impossible only months ago. “I learnt how. I found my place. And, I think, that you did too, but you’re doing what I always used to do, and running from it.”

He meets her eyes, and it’s all the confirmation she needs.

“I used to think that home was where the hurt was,” she explains, “and if I kept running from it then no one could hurt me. But it’s the running that hurts and it doesn’t matter how far you go, or how long you run for, the hurt doesn’t go away. I understand the instinct that drove you here, and I know why you told yourself you had to do it, but the truth is that you don’t have to do this, and you definitely don’t have to do it alone. We’re here, and we support you whatever you decide, but know that we’ve seen the true Bucky Barnes, and he’s not a monster, just a hero that thinks he is.”

She squeezes his hands and he looks up with a watery smile. There’s tears in her eyes as well, from speaking so truthfully about herself. It took her decades to stop thinking of herself as monster; now Bucky is on that long and difficult path, but she feels confident that together they can get him through it, if only he believes in himself.

She feels Sam and Steve step up beside her, and Tony awkwardly scuffing in the doorway, but she finds it hard to care about Stark in the face of so much progress from Bucky.

“Yeah, man,” Sam says, laying a hand over theirs. “I know it’s gonna get real scary in your head sometimes, and it’ll feel like you’re alone, but you gotta trust that we’re with you. Locking yourself away isn’t gonna help. You’re not protecting anyone by being here. If anything, you’re endangering them, by not allowing yourself to try and overcome the demons responsible.”

“We want to help,” Steve says softly. “We’ve come up with a compromise and I think maybe you should hear it out. Our first priority, is making sure you’re safe. That’s what you were worried about, right? Your arm? The serum? We can get some answers. And then go from there.”

When Steve strokes Bucky’s arm, Natasha doesn’t miss the wince. She pushes up the sleeve even as he tries to break her grasp, and sees deep red cuts into his arm in the unmistakable shape of his metal fingers.

“Bucky-”

“I’m sorry,” he squeaks, yanking his arm away to pull the sleeve back down. “I know I said I wouldn’t, but it was just a slip-up, please don’t be mad.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “We’re not mad, buddy. It’s a process. We’ve talked about this. Maybe I’ll have a word with Stark and see if we can arrange any of the alternatives we agreed upon, alright? We’ll get you patched up and then we’ll start working on the compulsions behind it-”

Tony claps his hands together, effectively breaking the moment. “Why don’t we get started right now? Jarvis, send the doctor to the labs, we’ll meet her there.”

“Certainly, sir,” comes the voice from the walls.

“Ready for me to take a look at that arm?” Tony asks, and then seems to catch himself and awkwardly adds, “the one most likely to kill me. I mean… the metal one. Oh, whatever. I’m just gonna-” he points the way out over his shoulder, and then follows his own direction and leaves.

Natasha leaves Sam and Steve with Bucky and runs to catch up with Tony in the elevator.

“A head’s up about the self-harm would’ve been nice,” Tony mutters as he forcefully presses at the elevator buttons. “Could’ve put the guy somewhere safer. Could’ve got surveillance, or a therapist, or _something_.”

“We told you he was punishing himself-”

“I can see that!” Tony exclaims, and he paces the elevator, looking like he’s about two seconds away from pulling at his own hair.

Natasha has honestly been thrown for a loop. “Are you… okay?”

“Fine,” he brushes off. “Just mention it next time, okay?”

She bites her lip. Avoiding the question tells her more than he thinks it does. Especially in how quickly he dropped his protests about Bucky. He’s even letting him make his own way to his precious labs unsupervised.

Her plan was to overcome his logic and appeal to his ego, but apparently there was one last step that she hadn’t accounted for: sympathizing. Who knew Tony Stark had the emotional capacity to relate to another human being?

-

The first thing they do is scan the prosthetic in case Hydra were smart enough to plant a self-destruct, but it looks like Natasha’s earlier worries were unfounded; there’s nothing in the machinery that shouldn’t belong. She breaths an actual sigh of relief when Tony tells her that.

“You know,” Tony says to Bucky, spinning on his chair, “we can get you a new prosthetic if you want.”

She watches as Bucky wriggles his metal fingers contemplatively. She knows he’s struggled with it. He used to hide it, ashamed, and she wonders if having the constant reminder of his past literally attached to him might be impeding his progress, but she also remembers kissing those fingers, and it had felt right, natural, like an extended part of him.

Bucky seems to come to the same conclusion and refuses the offer. Instead, they erase Hydra’s markings and clean the joins, and make it his own as much as they can. Later, she sees him smile at his reflection, and knows he has made the right choice.

It’s midnight by the time they convince Tony to stop tinkering and let them get some rest. He waves them towards the elevator, leaving accommodation up to them. Either he’s figured out the truth about the four of them, or he genuinely doesn’t care.

They pile into a large bed, exhausted, and Bucky is quiet, but the soft kisses he leaves on their faces feel a little like apologies, and a lot like love. This time it’s her that clings when they make love. Now she’s not the one running away, her fear seems to be that someone else will. But, perhaps, if the way they all hold on, this time maybe none of them want to leave. She’s just worried that the authorities will take Bucky from them before they have the chance to find out.


	21. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha has ~feelings~

The next morning, Coulson’s team arrive to question Bucky.

Natasha knows Bucky doesn’t trust a single one of them, and Steve is hardly helping, so she makes sure to introduce them one by one, and finds opportunities to display how harmless they are. She hasn’t let her guard down herself, but there’s no reason Bucky shouldn’t feel at ease, or as much at ease as possible when being interrogated by operatives and being prodded by Stark. Sam’s holding his hand the entire time though.

When she sees Bucky begin to relax, she finally backs away from the observation window, and goes to find Steve. As different as the situation is, she knows this must remind him of when Bucky was first taken behind enemy lines, of finding him strapped to an operation table. Pile that on top of his misgivings about S.H.I.E.L.D. and it isn’t surprising that he needed some space.

She’s barely turned the corner though, when she’s met by Agent May. “Romanoff,” she greets stonily.

“Oh, don’t act so offended, Melinda,” Natasha says with a teasing roll of the eyes. “You know it wasn’t personal that Bucky chose to hand himself over to Stark rather that S.H.I.E.L.D. He wanted familiarity, and he _knows_ Stark. Or, at least, he knows that Steve trusts him, which is close enough.”

“We had a deal, Natasha,” she says as she falls into step with her. “We’d help keep everyone of your back during Agent Carter’s funeral if you-”

“Delivered the offer to Bucky, and I did, he just didn’t chose to accept it.”

Melinda pauses and looks at Natasha sceptically. “You could have made him accept it.”

“I’m not in the business of manipulation anymore, especially not to those already struggling with the effects. I’m sorry, Melinda, I know I owe you, that’s why I had Stark call you to interview Bucky but if that’s not enough then… I guess I’d owe you a favor.”

Her brow furrows even further. “You don’t owe people favors, people owe _you_ favors. You never used to let yourself be indebted to anyone because your trust issues were so monumental-”

“No bigger than yours, I’m sure.”

“Probably,” she says, shaking her head with a laugh. “But you’ve changed, Natasha.”

“For better?” she asks as they keep moving.

Melinda huffs, but her mouth curves in a way that could be approval. “I guess we’ll have to see.” She turns to look Natasha up and down. “You definitely seem happier though. It suits you, you know.”

Natasha smiles.

Melinda smirks, knowingly. For a minute, Natasha fears she might actually be about to ask about her relationship, but thankfully she seems to realise that despite their tentative friendship, that’s probably a step too far for two people usually so secretive. “Coffee?” she asks instead, and Natasha is all too happy to accept.

-

Jarvis tells her where Steve is hiding out (the north balcony, twelve floor) but it’s a long enough walk that Isaiah manages to calls her enroute.

“How’s my favourite assassin turned superhero?” he greets mockingly.

Natasha laughs. “I may have to fight for that title soon enough. I’m at Stark Tower and either I’m turning into an optimist, or we might actually be getting somewhere with Bucky.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “The cleanup would have been very expensive if your plan didn’t work out. If you need a lawyer for Mr Barnes, I’m here, but I’m actually calling about a certain Ms Yana that you asked me to keep tabs on.”

Natasha nearly has to ask for clarification. It had actually slipped her mind. She had been so occupied looking after Steve during the funeral, and Sam when she returned, and Bucky when he left, not to mention her own demons and the inconvenience of falling in love, that she had nearly forgotten about the dangerous woman she had set free back in Idaho. The woman who captured Steve but that Natasha had given a second chance to, so that she might step out from under her father’s shadow. For the first time, Natasha hasn’t been relentlessly analysing her past mistakes. She made a decision in the field and managed to leave it there. Sam would be celebrating if he knew.

She may not have been obsessing over it, but she had still done her job and asked Isaiah to keep an eye on her. “What did you find out?” she asks.

“Yana’s been keeping herself out of trouble, don’t worry. She’s actually just opened a business. A green energy company with some very promising ideas… could wind up rivalling Stark if we’re lucky.”

“She’s doing good? It’s all legal?”

“From the looks of it, yes. I’d say you made the right call.”

Natasha closes her eyes in relief. “That’s… good to hear. Thanks, Isaiah.”

She’s been doubting her judgement about these things since she missed the signs about S.H.I.E.L.D. Her confidence has been steadily building in the months since, but there was a voice in the back of her head the whole time, telling her that the only reason that her plans with the boys, with Stark, worked out was because she knew the players so well, but Yana… Yana she read solely on the field, without any research or outside knowledge, and she still managed to make the right call. It goes some way in reassuring her that she can still trust herself, not just her instinct in battle, but in love as well.

Bucky is finally accepting help, Sam has re-discovered his purpose, and Steve will heal in time too. They’ve all found their place, and their confidence, with each other, and she knew it in her gut long before the evidence proved it. Clint was right all along; she ought to trust her trust instinct.

She finds herself smiling, proud of her own progress, when she finds Steve out on the balcony, the midday sun making his hair golden. Sometimes she can’t believe how lucky she is.

She greets him with a gentle hand on his back and he leans into the touch with a soft smile. “You doing okay?”

“I’m actually… good. Think I just needed a minute to breathe. I’m sorry for leaving back there. Is Bucky okay?”

“He’s doing great. I had a word with Coulson, and I think they agree that Bucky shouldn’t be locked up, especially having seen those papers you got from Hydra. They have a specialised psychiatrist on their team so I think they’re going to propose mandatory therapy but otherwise… he should be free. Assuming the history and tests don’t throw up any surprises of course.”

Steve breathes a sigh of relief as he leans down against the railings. “That’s good. Thank you, Natasha, for keeping your head through all this. I don’t know what we would’ve done without you.” He looks at her with a sad smile, and suddenly she knows why he’s distancing himself; he thinks she’s leaving.

She steps closer and puts her hand over his on the railing. She looks out over the city - what she’s beginning to think of as _her_ city - as she finds the courage to speak. “I want to stay, Steve. For real this time. I can’t promise forever, you know that, but I…” she doesn’t know how to say the words, so instead she says, “I found an apartment in Brooklyn big enough for the four of us. Well, five, if you count my cat, Liho. I know you and Sam were thinking of moving back here anyway but I thought you might want to-”

She’s unable to finish because he’s kissing her, so intensely that it feels like he’s actually taking the air from her lungs. His hands frame her face and when he breaks the kiss, they stay there, stroking his thumbs across her cheeks. “You’re really staying?”

“I am,” she says. “So is that a yes? Will you move in with me?”

Steve grins, nods enthusiastically, and kisses her before he breaks away with a laugh.

“What?” she asks.

“I remember someone agreeing to go on a date with me,” he says with a confident smile. “I don’t think I should agree to living with you until you’ve followed through on your last deal.”

Natasha huffs. “You thought I forgot about our art gallery date, Rogers?” she reaches into her pocket and pulls out two tickets for the exhibition with a raised eyebrow.

He laughs in disbelief, and reaches for them. She’s never seen a grown man so gleeful. He looks up from the tickets, eyes wide. “I love you, Natasha Romanoff,” he breathes.

She bites her lip, but manages to catch his eye, when she replies, finally, “I love you too.”

-

They do go the art gallery, and later, when Tony lets Bucky go free with an awkward pat on the back, they take Bucky and Sam to the ice-rink. Steve was right in his predictions, they love it, but more than that, they like the freedom that comes with it.

They’ll never be safe, she knows that. Her past could come back with a vengeance like it did in Idaho, someone could come for Bucky, or aliens could fall from the sky. (Again.) But for the first time since she can remember, Natasha isn’t worried. She isn’t obsessively planning contingencies for the future anymore. She will recognise agents a mile away and think of several ways to outplay them, but, she won’t let it consume her, because she doesn’t need it as a distraction anymore. She’s no longer afraid of her thoughts or her feelings.

They step away from the ice-rink after their first real date together, breathless with laughter, and book a ridiculously expensive suite at a top hotel, just for a night, just to celebrate coming out of this alive.

Natasha closes her eyes that night, surrounded by the men she loves, and drifts into a peaceful sleep. She no longer questions if she deserves this happiness. She has it. And now that she’s found it, she never wants to let it go.


	22. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they all lived happily ever after.

A month later, Natasha comes home with her arms full of groceries that she bought after meeting Clint downtown. It’s become home quicker than she thought possible, but she’s under no illusions as to why that is, it’s always been the case that people make a house a home, she just didn’t let herself believe it for a long time. She pushes open the apartment door with her foot, and is already smiling at the music softly playing from the radio - some old swing music - before she even sees the scene before her.

It’s a lazy Sunday and Bucky is stretched out on the hardwood floor, teasing Liho with a piece of string. His tee has ridden up while chasing the cat across the floor but he hardly seems to notice, instead he grins up at Natasha with a greeting and then continues playing with the cat. It wasn’t any surprise to Natasha how well they got on, but she’s noticed how Liho always seems to go to him after a hard day of therapy, or just a hard day, and curls up beside him, and it warms her heart. The good days, like today, Natasha thinks, is when Bucky repays the favor to Liho.

She leans down and brushes a kiss against his hair as she passes, daring not interrupt, and then peers over at Steve. He’s laid back on the couch, feet dangling from one end, and sketching, but he smiles beautifully up at her when she comes round.

“How are the Hawkeyes?” he asks, as he shades in the details of Bucky’s hair in his notebook.

“As dysfunctional as usual,” she sighs with a roll of her eyes.

“More or less than us?” a voice asks from the kitchen. Sam must be cooking dinner already.

She leans down to give Steve a quick upside-down kiss goodbye and then makes her way into the kitchen, depositing the groceries as she goes. “Clint’s involved, what do you think?” she jokes, and starts to put away the groceries.

Sam laughs and pauses in his cooking preparation long enough to pull her into a kiss. “Missed you,” he whispers against her lips.

“I was gone for six hours, tops,” she says as they return to their tasks. “I can’t have missed _that_ much. For one thing, there’s no cliffs for Steve to fall down-”

A loud groan comes from the couch because Steve knows he’s never living that down. Natasha laughs and pops a grape in her mouth, turning instead to pour over the maps on the kitchen table. They’re helping S.H.I.E.L.D. and Stark track down Hydra agents and they have a possible location some might be hiding out at. Now the big players have stopped squabbling over Bucky, the four of them have more support than ever in taking down that remnants of Hydra.

This is the home that she always wanted but had never realised before she met Sam, Steve, and Bucky. She never thought it was possible to love and not lie, to be able to share all of herself, not with just one person, but with three. But when she steps into her home, she knows she doesn’t have to be anything but herself, and sometimes that will be watching tv and eating junk food, and sometimes that will be cleaning her gun while discussing tactics around the kitchen table.

She can come home and know that they will be here. She knows that they love her, trust her, care about her. She depends on the fact, regularly now, that they have her back, both on and off the field. Natasha used to be so afraid of become dependent on anyone, it was a dangerous mix of trust and reliability that she knew better than to indulge in, but she didn’t realise how exhausting it was, never letting anyone close, never trusting anyone, until she finally gave herself the choice to love; the choice - as it turns out - simply to _stay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, guys! Thanks so much for reading, especially those who were with me right from the start, cheerleading me on even as I dumped three chapters in your lap in one day. 
> 
> You can follow me on [tumblr](http://vands88.tumblr.com/) if you want. 
> 
> Thanks again. :-) 
> 
> <3


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